’ 


“A  NEW  ENGLAND  SLEIGHING  FROLIC” 


AND  OTHER 


POEMS 

BY 

Francis  Mores  Adlington. 


Edited,  with  Introduction,  bv  his  Daughter, 

AMEY  M.  HILLYER. 


Boston : 

Frank  Wood,  Printer,  35a  Washington  Street. 

1884. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1884,  by  Amey  M.  Hillyer, 
in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington,  D.  C. 

All  rights  reserved. 


EDI0ATI0N. 


IN  LOVING  REMEMBRANCE  OF  MY  FATHER,  THIS  VOLUME  OF 
POEMS  IS  GRATEFULLY  DEDICATED  TO  THE  KINDRED  AND 
FRIENDS  WHO  HAVE  SO  CORDIALLY  AIDED  ME  IN 
CARRYING  OUT  HIS  LIFE-LONG  WISH. 


—  Amey  M.  Hillyer, 


Francis  Mores  Adlington,  the  author  of  these 
poems,  was  born  in  Temple  Street,  Boston,  Mass.,  Dec. 
24,  1789,  “just  as  Christmas  Eve  was  passing  over  into 
Christmas  morning,”  and  died  in  Weymouth,  Mass.,  on 
Palm  Sunday,  April  6,  1884. 

His  father,  Elisha  Adlington,  was  of  English  birth  ; 
his  mother,  Amey  (Mores)  Adlington,  was  of  Scotch 
descent.  “  Both  parents  handed  down  traditions  of  noble 
blood  with  their  family  coat  of  arms.” 

His  mother  was  devotedly  attached  to  the  Church 
of  England,  into  which  Francis  Mores  was  baptized  at 
a  very  early  age.  It  was,  therefore,  eminently  fitting 
that  the  dear  old  Mother-Church  should  give  him  her 
final  benediction  at  his  burial,  ninety  years  afterwards. 

His  mother  was  early  left  a  widow  with  eleven  chil¬ 
dren,  and  Frank  was  placed  in  the  employ  of  an  English 


VI 


INTRODUCTION. 


gentleman,  a  wholesale  merchant  in  Boston,  named 
Rogers.  His  duties  were  various  and  agreeable,  hut  he 
preferred  to  learn  the  tailor’s  trade,  and  served  his 
apprenticeship  with  Hubbard  Oliver.  In  a  tender  and 
grateful  poem  he  says  of  him :  — 

“Thou  wert  a  father  to  my  youth, 

A  kind  and  generous  friend.” 

After  setting  up  in  business  for  himself  he  married, 
in  1812,  Mary  Turell,  of  Boston.  She  died  in  1821. 
In  1824  he  moved  to  Weymouth,  and,  in  1829,  married 
Abigail  Whitman  Benson,  of  that  town. 

The  most  marked  trait  in  his  character  was  his 
patriotism.  His  father’s  home,  in  Boston,  was  the  ren¬ 
dezvous  for  the  old  Revolutionary  heroes  and  their  fam¬ 
ilies,  and  many  were  the  stories  related  around  that  old 
hearth,  which  were  listened  to  by  attentive  ears,  and 
which  inspired  his  boyish  heart  with  an  undying  love 
of  country.  When  the  Nation  called,  in  1812,  for  aid 
to  protect  her  sons  on  the  seas,  he  eagerly  sprang  for¬ 
ward,  the  only  volunteer  in  his  company  ;  and  although 
in  our  late  sad  Civil  War  he  was  too  old  to  go  himself,  his 
spirit  had  so  inspired  his  sons  that  all  four  volunteered. 
The  first  to  enlist  was  Scott,  his  youngest-born,  who 
died,  soon  after  the  first  battle  of  Bull  Run,  from  dis¬ 
ease  caused  by  exposure  and  hardship. 

The  oldest  son,  Henry,  was  the  next  to  fall.  He  had 
remarkable  powers  of  endurance,  and  used  facetiously 


INTRODUCTION. 


vii 


to  write  home  :  “  I  am  something  like  a  camel ;  when 
I  have  anything  to  eat,  I  eat  it,  and  when  I  have  n’t  I 
go  without.”  Out  of  a  whole  regiment,  he  was  one  of 
seven  who  stacked  arms  after  a  long  and  wearisome 
march.  He  was  taken  prisoner  and  sent  to  Richmond, 
where  he  was  offered  good  wages  and  rations  if  he  would 
stay  and  work  at  his  trade,  that  of  a  shoemaker,  for  the 
rebels.  He  said,  “  No  ;  I  will  die  first.”  He  was  sent  to 
Salisbury  Prison,  N.  C.,  and  in  one  month’s  time  died 
of  starvation.  “These  were  the  times  that  tried  men’s 
souls.” 

The  third  son,  Stephen,  died  soon  after  peace  was 
declared  —  the  sad  sequel  of  war  showing  as  many  vic¬ 
tims  as  the  bloody  battle-fields. 

The  only  surviving  son,  Alfred,  served  in  the  Mass¬ 
achusetts  Heavy  Artillery. 

The  author’s  religious  belief  was  broad  and  catholic. 
He  trusted  in  “  God  as  the  Father  of  all,  whose  loving¬ 
kindness  knows  no  end.”  His  faith  in  Him  was  bound¬ 
less.  He  inherited  from  his  parents  a  bonny  spirit. 
The  storms  and  trials  of  life  never  quenched  his  unfail¬ 
ing  cheerfulness,  nor  caused  a  gloom  to  settle  for  any 
length  of  time  upon  his  face.  “Nil  desperandum ”  was 
his  motto  through  life.  His  temper  was  fiery,  and 
sometimes  uncontrolled,  but  his  disposition  was  kind  and 
loving  ;  his  manners  those  of  the  old-school  gentleman,  — 
courtly  and  refined. 

His  Scotch  blood  was  shown  in  his  fondness  for  home 


vm 


INTRO  D  UCTION. 


and  kin.  Especially  were  the  children  of  his  own  house¬ 
hold  dear  to  him,  and  he  would  never  allow  their  rights 
or  pleasures  to  be  interfered  with.  He  used  to  say, 
“They  can  have  but  one  childhood  ;  let  it  be  a  happy  one.” 
Even  in  extreme  old  age  their  noisy  merriment  never 
disturbed  him,  and  many  were  the  quaint  Scotch,  Irish, 
and  Yankee  songs  that  he  used  to  sing  to  please  them, 
with  a  manner  and  expression  irresistibly  telling  and 
unique.  He  was  known  as  “  Grandpa  Adlington  ”  to  all 
the  boys  and  girls  in  the  village,  many  of  whom  visited 
him  for  a  flower,  a  so  ng,  a  poem,  or  even  a  kind  word 
Young  maidens  delighted  to  hear  him  recite  his  favor¬ 
ite  poems,  or  to  beg  him  to  compose  one  for  them  for 
some  special  occasion  of  gayety.  He  always  sympa¬ 
thized  with  them  in  their  joys  and  sorrows,  showing  his 
heart  was  ever  young.  A  most  affecting  scene  occurred 
just  before  his  burial,  when  about  fifty  school-children 
came  to  the  house  and  filed  in  slowly,  tearfully,  and 
reverently  to  look  once  more  upon  their  old  friend. 

His  life  was  one  of  toil  and  poverty,  yet  through  it 
all  the  poetic  Muse  cheered  and  comforted  him  in  many 
a  sad  and  lonely  hour. 

He  wrote  over  1,300  poems,  not  including  a  play  of 
some  length,  which  was  lost  by  a  friend  to  whom  it  was 
loaned,  for  criticism. 

His  earliest  published  poem  was  written  on  “Woman,” 
in  whose  praise  he  always  sang.  It  appeared  in  the 
Ladies'  Magazine,  Boston. 


INTRODUCTION. 


IX 


Not  many  authors  have  written  so  few  lines  they 
could  wish  unwritten.  His  pen  was  always  on  the  side 
of  Freedom.  A  friend  and  admirer  of  Garrison,  he  often 
contributed  to  the  columns  of  the  Liberator ;  a  strong 
advocate  of  temperance,  his  songs  rang  through  the 
country  in  the  old  Washingtonian  times.  An  old  lady 
said  to  me:  “You  need  not  think  your  father  will  ever 
die  ;  he  is  living  in  too  many  hearts  for  that.”  Then  she 
sang,  in  a  voice  as  clear  and  high  as  a  girl’s,  song  after 
song  of  his  that  she  used  to  sing  in  the  old  Washing¬ 
tonian  meetings. 

Many  of  these  poems  were  written  for  personal 
friends  for  seasons  of  joy,  or  to  console  afflicted  hearts, 
and  are  of  too  personal  a  nature  for  the  public  eye  ; 
many  were  of  temporary  or  local  interest ;  of  the  re¬ 
mainder,  about  400  were  selected  for  publication,  but 
finding  they  could  not  be  gathered  into  one  volume, 
only  about  165  are  here  presented  to  the  public. 

It  has  been  a  difficult  task  for  me,  his  daughter,  to 
perform  this  work  of  love.  Odes  for  the  Fourth  of  July 
that  I  have  heard  him  sing  with  all  the  fire  of  ’76, 
songs,  hymns,  and  poems,  are  so  filled  with  his  person¬ 
ality,  that  I  cannot  disconnect  them  from  the  old  man  sing¬ 
ing  or  reciting  them  with  a  spirit  fired  by  love,  patriotism, 
or  adoration.  I  cannot  positively  say  that  the  starry- 
eyed  hepatica,  the  first  spring  flower  which  greeted  my 
eyes  in  childhood,  is  really  more  lovely  than  the  trail¬ 
ing  arbutus  which  you,  my  friend,  love  above  all  others. 


X 


INTRODUCTION. 


I  only  know  it  is  filled  with  sweeter  memories  for  me 
than  any  other ;  so  I  leave  with  you  this  cluster  of 

“  Words  that  gush  freely  and  warm  from  the  heart, 
Untrimmed  of  their  beauty  by  fashion  or  art,” 

and  hope  they  may  be  a  joy  to  you,  as  they  have  been 
to  me. 


A.  M.  H. 


80NTENTS. 


Page 

AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION . xvii 


HYMNS. 

His  Precious  Name  is  Love . 3 

Hymn  of  Thanksgiving . 4 

The  Birth  of  Christ . 5 

Bright  Minstrels . 5 

Let  there  be  Light . 7 

Truth . 8 

Christian  Confidence  and  Peace . 8 

Sabbath  Morn . 10 

Come  to  the  Altar  of  our  Lord . 10 

Trust . 12 

Love  the  Lord . 13 

We  Cannot  See  Our  Father . 14 

God  has  been  Here . 15 

Man  has  no  Dwelling  Here . 17 

Hark!  Again  the  Angel  Throng! . 18 

To  Mr.  . 19 

Judah . 22 

Right  and  Wrong . 23 

MISCELLANEOUS. 

Introduction . 27 

View  of  Boston  Common . 29 

A  Yankee  Notion . 32 

Monatiquot . 38 

To-morrow . 39 

To  Poverty . 41 

The  Exile . 42 

St.  Helena . 43 


Xll 


CONTENTS. 


MISCELLANEOUS  —  Continued . 

Winter  Scene  at  Weymouth . 44 

The  Answer . 46 

Beside  the  Wood . 47 

Adieu  to  My  Harp . 50 

Memory . 51 

Friendship . 52 

Never  Say  Die . 54 

Know-Nothing .  55 

Give  Me  the  Wild  Notes . 58 

A  New  England  Sleighing  Frolic  .....  58 

The  Sanctum  of  Love;  or,  Home  and  Hearth  .  .  61 

The  Storm . 63 

The  Yankee . 65 

Corn-Husicing  in  New  England . 66 

To  the  Moon . 70 

Who’ll  Mourn  for  Me? . 71 

The  First  White  Hair . 72 

Fireman’s  Song . 73 

I’m  not  a  Non-resistant . 75 

To  the  Morning  Star . 76 

Lines  to  my  Brother . 76 

Ruffian  Soldiers . 78 

Gee  Up  ! .  79 

The  Tailor . 81 

All  Alone . 83 

Alone  —  Alone! . 84 

Three  Warnings . 85 

Aphorisms . 86 

LOVE  AND  KINDRED  SUBJECTS. 

The  Old  Man’s  Soliloquy . 91 

Another  Jewel  Gone . 92 

My  Mother . 93 

Remembrance . 94 

Jack’s  Hard  Parting . 95 

Ruth  to  Naomi . 96 

Kisses  . . 97 

To  Miss  .  98 

Some  Thirty  Years  Ago . 101 


CONTENTS. 


xiii 


LOVE  AND  KINDRED  SUBJECTS  —  Continued. 


I  only  Know  I  Love  Her  . 

102 

Owen . 

103 

The  Forsaken  . 

104 

Song  —  The  Cataract  . 

1 05 

Woman . 

107 

Where  Now  are  the  Lads  and  Lasses? 

109 

Flowers  as  well  as  Thorns 

I  10 

Queen  Victoria . 

III 

Mary . 

1 12 

Avaunt,  Despair  ! . 

113 

Woman  Compared  with  the  Months 

1 14 

Beauty  . 

117 

To  J.  D . 

Il8 

I  Remember . 

118 

The  Lassie  of  Monatiquot 

U9 

Retrospective . 

121 

My  Own . 

122 

Woman’s  Love . 

123 

Woman  .  .  .... 

124 

Where  Love  is  not,  there  is  no  Home 

125 

PERSONAL. 

On  William  Lloyd  Garrison . 129 

John  Brown  . . 131 

Lines  on  the  Hero  Lawrence . 133 

President  James  Monroe . 133 

The  Three-cornered  Hat . 135 

To  John  G.  Whittier . 136 

John  G.  Whittier  .  .  137 

Mrs.  PIarriet  Beecher  Stowe  .  ....  138 

Freeman  Hunt  .........  139 

Freeman  Hunt . 141 

To  George  Peabody  ....  ...  142 

The  Man  who,  though  Little,  is  Great  ....  143 

Hubbard  Oliver . 144 

Dr.  Noah  Fifield .  ...  145 

Rev.  Jonas  Perkins . 146 

Miss  M.  T . 147 

Miss  Susan  Tufts .  .  .  148 


XIV 


CONTENTS. 


PERSONAL  —  Continued. 

Gilman  Collamore,  Esq . 149 

Miss  Nancy  Bradley . 150 

A  Tribute  to  a  Soldier  .  .  .  .  .  .  .  15 1 

Stephen  S.  Adlington . 152 

Walter  Scott  Adlington . 153 

The  Young  Volunteer . 156 

To  the  Memory  of  the  Brave . 157 

PATRIOTIC. 

Ode  for  the  Fourth  of  July,  1818 . 163 

Anniversary  Ode . 165 

Ye  Olden  Time . 166 

Ode  for  the  Washington  Society . 168 

Fourth  of  July,  1842 . 170 

Independent  Day . 170 

Ode  Written  for  Independent  Day,  1875  ....  172 

Old  England . 174 

Mother  and  Daughter . 174 

Our  Fathers’  Legacy . 175 

Our  Fathers . 177 

Flag  Song  of  Triumph . 179 

All  Hail  to  our  Country . 180 

My  Native  Land . 181 

My  Country . 183 

Our  Union . 186 

“Our  Country,  Wrong  or  Right” . 187 

America . 189 

John  Bull  and  Uncle  Sam . 191 

On  the  Impressment  of  American  Seamen  ...  193 

Sailor’s  Rights . 194 

Patriotic  Song . 196 

Congratulatory  .  197 

Consul  Meade . 198 

Song  (Sung  at  the  Anniversary  of  the  Worcester  Light  Infantry)  200 

The  Citizen  Soldier . 201 

The  Old  Soldier’s  Petition . 203 

The  Soldiers  and  Sailors  of  1812-15  ....  204 

New  England  War-cry . 205 

Now’s  the  Time;  be  Up  and  Doing . 206 


CONTENTS. 


xv 


PATRIOTIC  —  Continued. 

We  are  Coming . 207 

Fight  on  for  Liberty . 209 

Shall  we  Forget  Them?  Never! . 211 

Decoration  Day,  1874 . 214 

Old  Erin  Awake  ! . 215 

The  Flag  of  our  Nation . 216 

ANTI-SLAVERY. 

Were  I  a  Yankee  Maiden . 223 

Ladies’  Anti-Slavery  Fair . 224 

Slavery . 226 

The  Fugitive  Slave . 227 

The  Escape  of  the  Hunted  Slave . 230 

Emancipation . 231 

Abolition  of  Slavery  in  the  West  Indies  .  .  .  233 

Abolition  of  Slavery  in  the  East  Indies  .  .  .  235 

Freedom . 236 

TEMPERANCE. 

Cold  Water . 241 

There  Came  for  the  Pledge . 242 

The  Sword  its  Many  Thousands  Slays  ....  244 

Elvira . 245 

Throuch  all  our  wild  Rambles . 247 

The  Poor,  Lone,  Orphan  Boy . 249 

Wirt . 250 

The  Mourning  Wife . 251 

Tea-Party  Song . 252 

Sure,  Won’t  You  Hear? . 253 

The  Mother’s  Curse . 257 

The  Mother . 260 


} 

or  s 


■^ntroducti 


on. 


Is  this  a  poet’s  harp  of  mine, 

Where  rude,  unstudied  wild  notes  play  ? 
To  me  it  seems  a  harp  divine  — 

But  what  will  Mrs.  Grundy  say? 

Hear  me,  old  beldame!  from  my  youth 
I’ve  sung  as  Nature  stirred  my  veins, 
Not  asking  thee,  but  only  truth, 

To  give  the  key-note  to  my  strains. 

I  sought  no  polish,  learned  no  art ; 

My  wild  notes,  of  the  wildest  kind, 

Came  freely  ringing  from  my  heart  — 

I  simply  sung  or  spoke  my  mind  : 

Of  statesmen,  heroes,  kings,  and  priests  ; 

Of  patriots  and  of  traitors  sung  ; 

Of  scenes  where  glowing  Fancy  feasts  ; 

Or  where  my  heart-strings  fondly  clung. 
My  fate  was  with  the  poor,  untaught ; 

To  earn  my  bread  my  daily  lot ; 

My  muse,  a  native,  came  unsought, 

To  cheer  me  in  my  humble  cot. 


XV111 


AUTHOR'S  INTRODUCTION. 


My  heart  was  with  the  poor  and  brave, 

Who  struggled  that  they  might  be  free. 

My  prayer  was  for  the  toiling  slave  ; 

My  idols,  Love  and  Liberty. 

My  country  evermore  was  dear  ; 

No  traitor  thoughts  e’er  crossed  my  brain  : 
I  loved  her  with  a  soul  sincere 
As  ever  breathed  a  patriot  strain. 

Time  passes  ;  I  am  aged,  now  ; 

But  ere  the  Reaper  claims  his  prey, 

Of  my  wild  carols  I  would  know 
What  now  will  Mrs.  Grundy  say? 

Her  verdict  is  not  always  just, 

But  from  it  there’s  but  one  appeal  — 

Time,  that  performs  a  sacred  trust, 

Reviews  and  sets  a  final  seal. 

So,  Mrs.  Grundy,  though  unschooled 
In  flat’ry,  I  address  you  now  : 

Though  you  have  fooled,  and  been  befooled, 

I  tread  your  courts,  and  make  my  bow. 


* 


*  HYMNS  * 


t 


His  P 


reclous 


Fiame  is 


biove. 


There’s  One  my  soul  desires, 
Whose  dwelling  is  above  : 
There’s  One  my  soul  admires, 
Whose  precious  name  is  Love  — 

A  love  that  knows  no  changing, 

A  love  that  has  no  end, 

Through  all  creation  ranging, 

To  every  one  a  Friend. 

“  With  cords  of  love  I’ll  draw  thee,” 
I  hear  my  Father  say  : 

“To  cleanse  thee  and  restore  thee, 
I’ll  blot  thy  sins  away, 

“No  more  to  be  remembered  ; 

The  ransomed  soul  set  free, 
From  sinful  flesh  dismembered, 

To  ever  dwell  with  Me.” 

Unnumbered  hosts  are  meeting  ; 

From  every  clime  they  come, 
With  songs  of  gladness  greeting, 
For  God  has  called  them  home. 


4 


HYMNS. 


No  voice  is  heard  of  sadness, 

In  His  bright  home  above, 

But  peace,  and  joyful  gladness, 
With  Him  whose  name  is  Love. 


Dec.  9,  1848. 


Hymn  of  (b\)  crnl^ 


scjivincj. 


To  Him  who  was  dead,  yet  in  heaven  is  living, 

To  Him  who  died  for  us,  we  offer  thanksgiving. 

Oh,  praised  be  His  name  who  the  death-bands  hath  riven, 
And  opened  for  sinners  a  pathway  to  heaven ! 

With  hearts  full  of  love,  by  His  mercy  recovered 
From  sin’s  thorny  path,  where  the  death-angel  hovered, 
We  lift  our  glad  voices,  in  humble  endeavor 
To  praise  Him  whom  God  hath  exalted  forever. 

Now  swell  the  loud  anthem,  awake  the  sweet  timbrels, 
Blow,  blow  the  shrill  trumpets,  and  strike  the  bold  cymbals, 
To  Jesus,  the  conq’ror  o’er  death’s  gloomy  regions, 

To  Jesus,  the  Saviour  of  earth’s  ransomed  legions. 

The  heavens  shall  echo,  the  angels  shall  listen, 

The  stars  at  His  name  with  new  luster  shall  glisten, 

While  His  and  our  Father  looks  down  from  above, 

And  unites  in  the  praise  of  the  child  of  His  love. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  CHRIST. 


5 


(ij)l )Q  0irlf>  of  0[}rist. 


Give  me,  my  God,  the  seraph’s  voice 
To  sing  my  faithful  Saviour’s  worth  : 

Bid  the  united  world  rejoice 

With  songs  of  everlasting  truth  ! 

Hark !  on  the  breeze,  methinks,  I  hear 
The  harps  of  heaven  to  music  wake. 

Dear  Father,  let  them  sound  more  near, 
Till  earth  to  its  foundations  shake. 

Bright  morning,  hail  !  the  Saviour’s  birth 
Gives  the  despairing  sinner  hope. 

Bow  down,  ye  heavens;  and  thou,  O  earth, 
To  grace  the  princely  Victor,  stoop  ! 

For  you  He  lived,  for  you  He  died, 

For  you  He  kindly  intercedes  ; 

By  His  own  virtue  deified, 

At  God’s  right  hand  for  you  He  pleads. 


(Christmas  Ilymn.  Tune  —  “America.”) 


Bright  minstrels,  who  to  earth 
Announced  our  Saviour’s  birth, 


In  words  of  love, 


6 


HYMNS. 


Again  your  voices  raise, 

And,  with  our  humble  lays, 
Mingle  the  note  of  praise 
To  Christ  above. 

For  us  He  left  the  skies, 

A  willing  sacrifice,  — 

Our  gen’rous  Friend : 

All  hail  the  jubilee  ! 

Where  Christian  altars  be, 
Our  Saviour,  Lord,  to  thee 
Let  praise  ascend. 

Loved  image  of  thy  Sire, 
While  all  the  angelic  choir 
Thy  name  adore, 

May  grateful  mortals  bring 
An  off’ring  to  their  King, 
Pure  hearts  thy  praise  to  sing 
Forevermore. 

Oh,  blessed  be  His  name 
Who  bore  the  sinners’  shame, 
And  made  them  free. 
Praise  to  the  faithful  Friend. 
Whose  mercies  know  no  end  ; 
Let  heartfelt  thanks  ascend, 
Dear  Lord,  to  thee. 


LET  THERE  BE  LIGHT. 


7 


bet  t[) 


’Twas  night ;  the  world  in  darkness  lay  ; 
Chaotic  earth  had  known  no  day. 

The  voice  of  God  the  planet  shakes  — 

“  Let  there  be  light” — the  morning  breaks. 
Oh  scene  sublime,  when  radiant  skies 
First  opened  to  the  angels’  eyes  ! 

“The  morning  stars  together  sang  ;  ” 

The  arch  of  heaven  with  music  rang ; 

The  angelic  choir  lift  up  their  voice ; 

“The  sons  of  God  with  shouts  rejoice.” 

But  hark!  their  golden  harps  are  thrown 
Aside  for  notes  of  sweeter  tone. 

God  speaks  —  when,  at  His  great  command, 
Appears  the  dry  and  fruitful  land  ; 

The  parted  waters,  trembling,  flee, 

And  broadly  rolls  the  teeming  sea. 

Aloft  in  air  bright  clouds  appear, 

And  all  are  echoing,  “  God  is  here  !  ” 

Ah  !  well  might  angels  joy  to  view 

The  bright,  green  earth,  the  sky’s  clear  blue, 

The  rising  sun’s  resplendent  light, 

And  all  things  beautiful  and  bright ; 

While  hill  to  hill,  across  the  flood, 

Repeats  God’s  words,  that  all  is  good. 


Feb.  21,  1843. 


8 


HYMNS. 


Men  will  applaud  you  when  you  think  and  act 
As  they  would  have  you ;  but  diverge  a  mite, 
They  will  denounce  you — you  will  be  attacked, 
No  matter  whether  you  are  wrong  or  right. 
Trust  not  too  much  for  others  to  advise  ; 

Use  your  own  mind  ;  be  prompt  to  duty’s  call  ; 
Know  that  the  wisest  are  not  always  wise  ; 

Let  conscience  guide,  whatever  may  befall. 
Some  will  commend  you,  some  will  take  offense  ; 

Let  nothing  move  you  from  your  honest  way  ; 
There  is  a  triumph  yet  for  common  sense, 

For  truth,  the  promise  of  a  brighter  day. 
Though  modest  Truth  in  pigmy  form  appears, 
And  speaks  as  soft  as  is  an  infant’s  sigh, 

Yet  has  she  strength  that  giant  Error  fears, 

A  voice  to  silence  e’en  the  loudest  lie. 

June  9,  1847. 


©pistian  Confidence  and  Peace. 


(Tune  —  Auld  Lang  Syne.) 

How  happy  is  the  Christian’s  heart ! 

No  gloomy  doubts  has  he  ; 

In  song  or  prayer  he  takes  his  part, 
Confiding,  Lord,  in  thee  : 


CHRISTIAN  CONFIDENCE  AND  PEACE. 


9 


Confiding,  Lord,  in  thee  for  good, 
Confiding,  Lord,  in  thee  ; 

In  prayer  or  praise  he  takes  his  part, 
Confiding,  Lord,  in  thee. 

The  sorrows  which  he  used  to  know 
’Midst  Superstition’s  night, 

Have  fled  before  the  cheering  glow 
Of  radiant  gospel  light : 

Of  radiant  gospel  light  divine, 

Of  radiant  gospel  light ; 

His  doubts  and  fears  have  fled  before 
The  radiant  gospel  light. 

When  tried  amid  afflicting  scenes 
Of  sickness,  grief,  and  care, 

On  God’s  eternal  love  he  leans, 

And  yields  not  to  despair  : 

And  yields  not  to  despair  his  hopes, 
And  yields  not  to  despair  ; 

On  God's  eternal  love  he  leans, 

And  yields  not  to  despair. 

Assured  that  He  who  came  to  save, 
His  mission  will  fulfill, 

Like  Peter  on  the  faithless  wave, 

He  trusts  the  Saviour  still  : 

He  trusts  the  Saviour  still  to  save, 

He  trusts  the  Saviour  still  ; 

Convinced  himself  he  cannot  save, 
He  trusts  the  Saviour  still. 


10 


HYMNS. 


Q 


bbatl}  FR 


orn. 


Even  in  our  solitude  praise  we  the  Lord, 

Where  the  harp  and  the  viol  are  not : 

Our  hearts  with  the  wild  notes  of  nature  accord, 

And  the  Author'  is  never  forgot. 

When  zephyrs  are  kissing  the  rose  of  the  vale, 

The  sweet  fringe  of  the  frolicksome  rill, 

We  drink  the  rich  odors  that  float  on  the  gale, 

And  our  bosoms  with  gratitude  fill. 

And  when  the  red  lightning  is  rending  the  oak, 

We  shrink  not  disheartened  away  ; 

’Twas  the  voice  of  our  Father,  in  thunder,  that  spoke, 
And  commands  us  with  rev’rence  t’  obey. 

The  morn  of  each  Sabbath  the  cheering  bell’s  sound 
Invites  to  the  Ancient  of  Days  : 

Our  hearts  to  the  echo  with  gratitude  bound, 

And  we  love  to  unite  in  His  praise. 


ome  to 


(Tune  —  Iola.) 

Come  to  the  altar  of  our  Lord, 
Whose  emblem  is  the  dove, 


COME  TO  THE  ALTAR  OF  OUR  LORD. 


11 


And  tune  your  hearts  with  one  accord 
To  Him  whose  name  is  Love, 

To  Him  whose  name  is  Love. 

How  pleasant  ’tis,  assembled  here, 

To  call  Him  by  his  name, 

And  know  that  all  our  souls  are  dear 
To  Him  who  bore  our  shame, 

To  Him  who  bore  our  shame. 

To  feel  that  all  of  Adam’s  race 
Are  brethren  in  the  Lord  ; 

That  all  shall  see  the  Saviour’s  face, 
According  to  His  word, 

According  to  His  word. 

Come  to  His  altar,  brethren  all ; 

None  are  excluded  here  : 

Obey  your  gen’rous  Saviour’s  call, 
And  love  shall  banish  fear, 

And  love  shall  banish  fear. 

Lift  up  the  trumpet  loud  and  shrill, 
And  waft  its  notes  above, 

Till  echo  cries  from  every  hill, 

Our  God  —  our  God  is  love  ; 

Our  God  —  our  God  is  love. 


12 


HYMNS. 


Though  poverty  don’t  make  a  poet, 

With  some  exceptions,  here  and  there, 

The  class  is  famed  —  the  records  show  it  — 
For  seldom  having  cash  to  spare. 

Who  ever  saw  a  poet  fat  ? 

Not  theirs  the  aldermanic  form  : 

The  threadbare  coat  and  napless  hat 
Is  still  the  poet’s  uniform. 

The  poets  always  have  been  poor, 

And  I  am  poor  as  Job’s  old  turkey : 

My  time-worn  boat  must  keep  in  shore, 

And  breast  the  saucy  waves  no  more. 

What  follows,  then  ?  Must  I  be  murky  ? 
Not  I ;  for  if  I  may  not  sail, 

I’ll  paddle  close  along  life’s  river. 

Then,  if  my  efforts  won’t  avail, 

I  know  a  Friend  who  will  not  fail, 

And  He’s  to  all  a  generous  giver. 

He  gave  me  life,  and,  good  or  ill, 

Whatever  ups  or  downs  o’ertake  me, 

His  sacred  promise  He’ll  fulfill, 

“  Fear  not,  for  I  am  with  thee  still,” 

He  said  ;  “  I  never  will  forsake  thee.” 

There  is  a  Pilot  at  the  helm. 

In  faith  regard  His  words,  and  learn  ye 
That  He  controls  this  mighty  realm, 

“The  waters  shall  not  thee  o’erwhelm,” 

And  through  the  fire,  it  shall  not  burn  thee. 


LOVE  THE  LORD. 


13 


Thus  far  His  promise  has  been  true  ; 

I’ve  ’gainst  the  elements  contended, 

Have  been  both  fire  and  water  through, 
And  kept  His  promise  still  in  view, 

And  He  has  still  my  life  defended. 

In  faith  I  hold  His  promise  fast, 

And  will,  while  I  have  life  and  reason. 

I’ll  nail  my  colors  to  the  mast, 

And  patient  bide  the  driving  blast, 

With  hope,  through  his  appointed  season. 

The  timid  weakling  may  despair, 

But  better  far  the  firm  endeavor 
For  what  may  happen  to  prepare  ; 

Suppose  the  worst —  e’en  that  to  dare, 

And  bend  the  neck  to  fortune  never. 
Huzza  !  aloft  my  colors  fly  ; 

Misfortune,  I’m  prepared  to  meet  thee : 
My  motto  never  to  say  die, 

But  try  again,  and  try,  and  try, 

And  faith,  Misfortune,  I  shall  beat  thee. 

Nov.  12, 1870.  _ 


“  Love  the  Lord  !  ”  our  teachers  cry. 
Love  him,  teachers?  Tell  me  why. 
Is  it  that  yre  here  are  found 
Lab’ring  on  the  rich  man’s  ground  — 
From  the  cradle  to  the  grave, 
Toiling,  toiling  like  the  slave?  — 


14 


HYMNS. 


Suffering  sickness,  want,  and  pain, 
Ever  toiling  still  in  vain, 

Flouted  by  the  rich  and  proud, 
Jostled  by  the  thoughtless  crowd?  — 
Subject  to  the  cold  world’s  frown, 
Not  a  foot  of  earth  our  own, 

Where  we  may  unchallenged  tread, 
Or  unlicensed  earn  our  bread  ?  — 

All  that  God  has  made  so  fair, 

Fraud,  and  force,  and  cunning  share. 
For  a  life  precarious  lent, 

Must  we  say  we  are  content  ? 

Victims  of  the  plague  and  sword, 
Must  we  praise  and  love  the  Lord  ? 

Yes,  for  know  His  promise  sure  — 
All  who  faithful  shall  endure, 

In  a  better  world  than  this 
Reap  the  joys  of  endless  bliss. 

Time  shall  pass,  like  night,  away, 
Ush’ring  in  eternal  day  : 

Patient  bear  life’s  transient  ill. 

Love  the  Lord,  and  trust  him  still. 


We  cannot  see  our  F'ather  — 
Our  eyes  are  all  too  dim  ; 
Nor  can  our  fancies  gather 
A  form  denoting  Him. 


GOD  HAS  BEEN  HERE. 


15 


Yet  His  loved  voice  is  near  us 
Where’er  our  footsteps  rove  ; 

It  whispers  He  can  hear  us, 

And  tells  us  He  is  love. 

Within,  around,  above  us, 

His  works  are  felt  and  seen, 

Convincing  He  must  love  us, 

Or  thus  they  had  not  been. 

Had  all  His  fruits  been  hateful, 

Did  all  we  touch  give  pain  ; 

Were  ev’ry  view  deceitful, 

And  jargon  ev’ry  strain  ; 

Were  ev’ry  flower  that  sprouted 
A  stench  within  the  grove,  — 

Ah  !  then  we  might  have  doubted 
If  God  indeed  were  love. 

But  thanks  to  Thee,  our  Father, 
Thy  works  Thy  goodness  prove  ; 

And  while  Thy  sweets  we  gather, 
We  feel  that  Thou  art  love. 


been 


There  is  a  wise  and  mighty  one, 
His  works  around  are  seen  ; 
And  everything  we  look  upon 
Proclaims  He  here  has  been. 


16 


HYMNS. 


To  me,  it  seems  the  quiet  earth 
On  which  we  thoughtless  tread, 

In  whispers  now  ascribes  its  birth 
To  God,  who  gives  me  bread. 

The  flowers  that  blossom  in  the  field, 
Though  springing  from  the  sod, 

Bear  witness,  while  their  sweets  they  yield, 
They  are  the  gift  of  God. 

Each  little  shrub  whose  leaf-clothed  arms 
Amidst  the  sunbeams  play, 

The  mem’ry  of  a  God  embalms, 

That  light  and  heat  obey. 

The  water  in  the  little  brook  — 

What  is  it  ?  I  inquire. 

In  vain  I  read  the  chemist’s  book ! 

What’s  water  ?  what  is  fire  ? 

We  know  them  only  by  the  name, 

Yet  need  them  ev’ry  hour; 

And  these  in  thunder  tones  proclaim 
A  wise  and  mighty  power. 

Have  they  intelligence  ?  can  they 
Go  forth  or  come  at  will  ? 

No ;  there’s  a  Power  they  did  obey 
That  can  control  them  still. 

This  hand,  so  cunningly  contrived, 

So  wond’rously  designed, 

Were  proof,  if  that  alone  survived, 

Of  superhuman  mind. 


MAN  HAS  NO  DWELLING  HERE. 


17 


A  greater  than  these  eyes  have  seen 
Its  Architect  must  be  ; 

Its  mighty  Author  must  have  been 
A  Father  kind  to  me. 

Yes,  ev’rything  that  meets  the  eye 
Declares  there  is  a  God, 

From  the  bright  worlds  that  deck  the  sky 
To  this  unfinished  clod. 


Here. 


There  is  no  land  the  eye  can  trace, 

No  spot,  however  dear, 

Where  man  can  fix  a  dwelling-place 
And  say,  My  home  is  here. 

The  earthquake’s  voice  may  warning  give, 
The  whirlwind  sweep  it  clear  ; 

Earth  has  no  place  where  man  can  live 
And  say,  My  home  is  here. 

The  strongest  tower  may  be  o’erthrown 
That  mortal  hands  can  rear  : 

Man  has  no  place  to  call  his  own 
And  say,  My  home  is  here. 


18 


HYMNS. 


The  sunlit  hill,  the  shaded  glen, 

The  lightning  both  can  sear  : 

There  is  no  place  on  earth  where  men 
Can  say,  Our  home  is  here. 

The  deepest  mine  is  no  defense,  — 

The  fire-damp  slumbers  near  : 

A  breath  may  warn  its  tenants  thence  — 
Man  has  no  dwelling  here. 

But  there’s  a  place  beyond  the  skies 
The  Saviour  will  prepare  : 

The  pure  in  heart  can  lift  their  eyes 
And  say,  Our  home  is  there. 


Har^  !  acjain  tbe  Qncjel  %  nonci ! 


(Christmas  Hymn.) 

Hark  !  again  the  angel  throng 
Seem  above  our  heads  to  sing, 

While  their  music  floats  along, 

Making  heaven’s  high  arches  ring  : 
Peace  on  earth,  to  men  good-will ! 
Sounds  of  gladness  floating  still. 

Years  on  years  have  passed  away 
Since  that  ever-honored  morn  ; 

Still  we  hear  the  angels  say, 


TO  MR. 


19 


Peace  on  earth  !  the  Christ  is  born. 
Round  the  world  the  echo  flies, 
Echoed  by  the  listening  skies. 


Favored  mortals,  who  believe 
Jesus  came  the  world  to  save, 
Gave  his  life  that  you  might  live, 
Died  to  triumph  o’er  the  grave, 
Loud  the  grateful  anthem  raise, 
Glory  to  our  Saviour’s  praise  ! 


Spread  the  joyous  tidings  round 
With  the  holy  day’s  return  ; 

Far  as  earth’s  extremest  bound 
Let  the  distant  heathen  learn, 

Till  is  heard  from  every  voice, 
Christ  is  born  ;  rejoice  !  rejoice  ! 


\ 


Believest  thou  the  Eternal  will 
Consign  a  soul  to  hell, 

And  can’st  thou  hope,  while  doubting  still, 
All  with  thee  will  be  well  ? 

How  knowest  thou  the  Eternal’s  mind, 

Or  that  thou  sharest  His  grace  ? 

How  darest  thou  hope  in  heaven  to  find 
At  last  a  resting-place  ? 


20 


HYMNS. 


If  one,  if  only  one,  be  lost, 

What  proof  thou  art  not  he  ? 

Wilt  thou,  presumptuous  sinner,  boast 
That  there  are  worse  than  thee  ? 

The  best  that  e’er  as  man  was  known, 

That  e’er  on  earth  has  trod, 

Declared  that  none  were  good,  save  one  — 
That  one  the  Eternal  God. 

Thy  debt,  perhaps,  thou  thinkest  light, 
When  with  some  brother’s  weighed  ; 

But  He  who  holds  the  scales  aright, 

Knows  all  things  He  has  made. 

Some,  reared  and  taught  by  pious  men, 
Pass  saintly  on  their  way  ; 

Some,  born  within  the  pirate’s  den, 

Are  taught  to  rob  and  slay. 

Had  these  a  different  culture  proved, 

The  saint,  perhaps,  had  been 

A  fiend  ;  the  thief  a  saint  beloved  : 

God  sees  behind  the  screen. 

If  one  be  lost  thy  chance  is  small, 

Though  millions  round  thee  stand  : 

One  righteous  God  has  made  them  all 
And  holds  them  in  his  hand. 

If  one  be  cast  to  endless  woe, 

How  can  I  trust  in  thee, 

My  God,  since  none  on  earth  can  know 
But  that  one  I  may  be ! 


TO  MR. 


21 


Or  if  another,  his  dread  cries, 

His  agonizing  groan, 

Would  make  a  discord  in  the  skies, 
And  shake  the  eternal  throne, 

No  longer  with  the  angelic  choir 
Would  Mercy’s  plaudits  swell  ; 

But  Echo,  on  her  sounding  lyre, 
Would  ring  the  cries  of  hell. 

Is  this  the  place  that  Christians  love, 
Where  Mercy  forth  is  driven? 

Is  this  the  mansion  *of  the  Dove, 

The  Saviour’s  boasted  heaven  ? 

Ah  no  !  if  sympathy  be  there, 

If  charity  endure, 

Our  souls  shall  witness  no  despair 
That  mercy  will  not  cure. 

The  Saviour’s  hand  from  every  eye 
Shall  wipe  away  the  tear  ; 

Shall  stifle  ev’ry  rising  sigh, 

And  quiet  every  fear  ; 

While  ransomed  millions  gather  round 
To  praise  the  sinner’s  Friend, 

And  heaven  re-echoes  with  the  sound, 
“Thy  mercy  has  no  end.” 


Nov.  io,  1849. 


22 


HYMNS. 


Shall  Judah’s  sons,  though  scattered  wide, 
And  crushed  to  earth  by  countless  ills, 

Like  worthless  chaff  be  cast  aside, 

Far,  far  away  from  Judah’s  hills, 

Forever,  say,  forever? 

And  shall  Jehovah’s  promise  made 
To  Abram,  Isaac,  Jacob,  fail ; 

Shall  all  the  Heaven-wrought  visions  fade, 
While  Judah’s  daughters  weep  and  wail, 
Forever,  say,  forever  ? 

Ah  no  !  the  promise  of  their  God 
Will  gather  Judah’s  scattered  race, 

Redeem  the  desecrated  sod, 

And  purify  the  holy  place, 

Forever,  aye,  forever. 

Again  shall  Judah’s  hills  resound 

With  shouts  of  joy,  and  songs  of  praise  ; 

The  dead  shall  live  ;  the  lost  be  found  ; 
And  God  will  justify  his  ways 

Forever,  aye,  forever. 


May  27,  1870. 


RIGHT  AND  WRONG. 


23 


Right  is  right,  and  wrong  is  wrong, 
By  whomsoever  done  — 

By  the  magnificent  and  strong, 

Or  weak  and  lowly  one. 

Might  gives  no  right  to  do  a  wrong  : 
Not  to  the  mightiest  of  the  strong 
Does  the  impossible  belong  — 

The  right  to  do  another  wrong. 

Shall  we  impute  to  the  Most  High 
An  act  that  none  could  justify, 

And  then,  in  common,  sense  despite 
Say  that  the  glaring  wrong  is  right  ? 

“  All  souls  are  mine,”  Jehovah  said  : 
The  weakest  soul  that  He  has  made, 
Howe’er  transgressing  and  defiled, 
Belongs  to  God  —  it  is  His  child. 

In  His  own  image  it  was  made, 

And  still  it  bears  its  Father’s  seal  : 
No  hostile  power  can  make  it  fade, 
Or  make  His  signet’s  stamp  unreal. 

And  will  He  cast  His  own  away, 
Neglectful  of  a  Father’s  care. 
Doomed  everlastingly  to  stay 
In  agonizing,  dread  despair? 


24 


HYMNS. 


Believe  it  not ;  it  is  a  lie, 

Framed  to  dishonor  the  Most  High, 
And  lead  poor  worms,  to  ’scape  the  rod, 
To  feign  a  love  through  fear  of  God. 

For  who  could  love  a  tyrant  power, 

Who  on  their  heads  might  ruin  shower, 
Or  doom  the  friends  they  loved  so  well, 
To  never-ending,  burning  hell  ? 


April  26,  1879. 


*  MISCELLANEOUS  * 


introduction 


to 


isceilaneous 


p 


oems, 


I  was  born  in  the  City  of  Notions ; 

My  father,  a  barber,  d’ye  see, 

Took  part  in  those  fearful  commotions, 
That  made  this  the  land  of  the  free. 
The  Britons  he  took  by  their  noses, 
And  lathered  them  up  to  the  eyes  ; 
With  powder  not  scented  with  roses, 

He  gave  them  a  dressing,  likewise. 
My  mother  was  Scottish  descended, 

My  father  of  English  extract, 

And  when  the  two  races  are  blended, 
They  make  the  real  Yankee  in  fact. 
Yankee’s*  the  Indian  for  English, — 
I’m  proud  of  the  title  I  own  ; 

Nor  would  I  its  honors  relinquish, 

For  all  in  the  gift  of  a  throne. 

Since  six  years  of  age  I  have  struggled, 
Sometimes  most  severely,  for  bread  ; 


*  The  Indians  called  the  English  Yankish  ;  hence,  Yankies,  Yankees. 


28 


MIS  CEL-LANEO  US. 


What  little  I  know  has  been  smuggled 
Clandestinely  into  my  head. 

A  tailor,  a  soldier,  a  trader, 

I  bustled  along  with  the  crowd  ; 

Dame  Fortune,  I  never  obeyed  her — 

Of  course  I  was  never  endowed. 

She  urged  me  to  carry  two  faces, 

To  speak  what  my  heart  must  deny  ; 

I  could  not  acquire  those  graces, 

And  therefore  bade  Fortune  good-bye. 

’Tis  fifty  long  years  since  to  rhyming 
I  took,  in  the  natural  way  ; 

Sometimes  with  adversity  chiming, 
Sometimes  with  the  happy  and  gay. 

And  now  my  white  hairs  are  increasing  ; 
Time  flies  since  the  first  I  could  tell ; 

But  as  there  of  life  is  no  leasing, 

Ere  long  I  must  bid  you  farewell. 

Then  farewell  each  sister  and  brother, 
And  every  loved  object  adieu. 

New  England,  my  idolized  mother, 

My  heart  never  wandered  from  you. 


VIEW  OF  BOSTON  COMMON. 


29 


0ommon. 


(Written  a  long  time  ago  by  the  Author,  then  a  Boston  boy.) 

I  sat  me  on  the  wishing-stone ,  * 

And  gazed  upon  the  scenery  ’round  ; 

’Twas  early  day,  and  I,  alone, 

Sweet  solitude  delightful  found. 

I  gazed  upon  the  steeplef  tall, 

That  lifts  its  towering  head  on  high  ; 

The  firm-built  fabric,  tap’ ring  small, 

A  pillar  seemed,  to  prop  the  sky. 

The  stately  dwellings  wealth  had  raised 
Next  met  my  view,  and  thus  I  said : 

“Though  high  by  human  pride  appraised, 
Your  beauties  all  must  fade. 

“  Though  firm  your  fixed  foundations  stand, 
And  seem  at  Time  to  mock, 

The  house  that ’s  built  upon  the  sand 

Cannot  the  floods  of  heaven  withstand, 

Like  that  upon  the  rock.” 


*  A  large  rock  on  the  high  land  of  the  Common,  long  since  removed. 
The  school-boys  were  in  the  habit  of  dancing  around  it,  ascending  to  the  top 
and  wishing,  and  sometimes  their  wishes  would  be  gratified — hence  its  name. 

t  Park  Street  Church, — then  being  finished. 


30 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


Each  lofty  tree  whose  spreading  boughs 
A  cooling  shade  afford, 

Its  great  Creator’s  power  avows, 

And  owns  its  sovereign  Lord. 

The  smooth,  green  plain,  the  distant  hills, 

My  Father’s  goodness  prove  ; 

And  my  glad  heart  with  pleasure  fills 
With  gratitude  and  love. 

On  this  still  morn  the  waveless  stream 
Now  meets  my  roving  eye,  — 

The  mirror  to  each  starry  beam 
That  sparkles  from  the  sky. 

And  now  the  burial-ground  appears  : 

There  rest,  in  silent  peace,  the  dead  ; 

How  often  in  my  infant  years, 

I ’ve  shunned  the  mournful  place  with  dread. 

There  lie  the  relics  of  my  friends, 

Their  coverlid  the  grassy  sod  ; 

There,  dust  with  dust  incorporate  blends — 

The  spirits  rise  to  meet  their  God. 

Now  comes  the  glorious  light  of  heaven, 

Sol’s  radiant  car,  impetuous  driven 
High  o’er  the  flitting  clouds  : 

On  yonder  glittering  vane,  behold 

His  burning  light,  where  thinnest  gold 
A  baser  substance  shrouds. 


VIEW  OF  BOSTON  COMMON. 


31 


’Tis  like  that  kind  of  charity 

Which  bad  men  use  for  policy, 

To  shield  them  from  disgrace: 

’Tis  like  a  whited  sepulchre, 

Where  all  without  looks  fair  and  pure, 

While  all  within  is  base. 

Now,  as  to  gaze,  I  turn  me  round, 

An  ancient  dwelling  meets  my  view : 

There  Hancock  dwelt,  the  statesman  sound, 
The  patriot  to  his  country  true. 

And  now  the  State  House  dome  I  see, 

And  see  it  with  a  freeman’s  pride: 

There  stands  the  proof  that  I  am  free, 

For  there  our  chosen  men  decide 

On  what  is  just,  and  fit,  and  good 
To  benefit  the  Commonwealth; 

From  my  infantile  days ’t  has  stood 
A  monument  of  freedom’s  health. 

Ye  honored  halls,  where  graybeards  join 
To  guard  what  youthful  courage  gains, 

Bright  may  your  lamps  of  honor  shine, 

’Till  earth  from  its  foundation  wanes. 


32 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


0  V" ctnl?ee  R>otion, 


(Written  soon  after  the  Battle  of  Navarino.) 

Think  not  because  we’re  Yankees  born 
We  love  no  other  nation, 

Or  that  we  look  with  peevish  scorn 
On  those  in  lower  station. 

We  dearly  prize  our  liberty, 

And  bravely  we  ’ll  defend  it ; 

But  then  to  other  lands,  d’y’  see, 

We’d  really  like  to  send  it. 

Uncle  Sam ’s  a  friend  to  all, 

,  To  all  the  folks  in  Nature  ; 

But  kinder  feels  a  little  tall, 

And  knows  there ’s  nothing  greater. 
So  push  about  the  Yankee  toast, 

“  Here’s  luck  to  all  creation  ;  ” 

For  though  we  love  our  own  the  most, 
We’ve  love  for  every  nation. 

And,  firstly,  there ’s  our  Fatherland, 
With  all  its  faults  unmended  ; 

It  makes  us  feel  a  little  grand 
To  think  how  we  descended. 

For  little  Vic,  we  like  her  well, 

The  while  she  keeps  in  order  ; 

But  then,  she  mus’  n’t  think  to  tell 
Of  cap’ring  round  the  border. 


A  YANKEE  NOTION. 


33 


We  give  the  hand  to  gallant  France, 

And  wish  her  comfort  doubled  ; 

For  us  she  raised  her  victor  lance 
When  we  were  sort  o’  troubled. 

Of  Bonaparte,  the  cowards’  spoil, 

The  idol  France  elected, 

His  ashes  yet  shall  guard  the  soil 
His  courage  long  protected. 

To  Spain  and  Holland  both  we  owe 
A  well-remembered  favor ; 

And  toward  them  both  I  guess  we’ll  show 
The  proper  kind  of  ’havior. 

But  when  folks  make  a  deuced  fuss 
’Bout  who  shall  be  their  ruler, 

We  kindly  tell  them,  copy  us, 

And  keep  a  little  cooler. 

Of  Belgium  I  little  know, 

But  fear  she  needs  defending  : 

Alike  she  bleeds  from  friend  and  foe 
When  Europe  is  contending. 

Ah  !  when  will  men  compassion  learn 
From  Him  whose  blood  has  freed  them? 

The  bad  His  heavenly  precepts  spurn, 

The  best  too  little  heed  them. 

Of  Germany,  the  learned  and  vain, 

I  scarce  know  where  to  find  her  ; 

She’s  such  a  kind  of  tangled  skein 
’Tis  a  puzzle  to  unwind  her. 


34 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


I  only  guess  she  would  be  free 
If  it  should  come  in  fashion  ; 

But  wake  the  cry  of  liberty, 

And  Germany  would  dash  on. 

The  Switzer,  from  his  mountain  field, 
Looks  proudly  o’er  the  valley  ; 

Here  Freedom  lifts  her  jeweled  shield, 
And  here  her  children  rally. 

The  sea  may  o’er  her  valleys  roll, 

Her  mountains  be  dismembered, 

But  while  there  lives  one  free-born  soul, 
Brave  Tell  shall  be  remembered. 

How  long,  Italia,  oh  how  long 
Shall  silken  chains  confine  thee  ? 

Awake  to  Freedom’s  rousing  song, 

And  let  not  Sloth  supine  thee ! 

I  never  yet  have  been  in  Rome, 

Though  long  the  Pope  has  waited  : 

He  favors  kissing  —  /  do,  some  ; 

This  proves  we  are  related. 

But  if  I  should  a  cous’ning  go 

Perhaps  ’twould  move  his  laughter, 

For  if  he  offered  me  his  toe 

To  kiss,  I’d  tell  him,  Father,  no  ; 

I ’d  rather  kiss  your  daughter. 

How  fares  it,  brother  Ishmael, 

The  gallant  desert  rover  ? 

As  free  as  is  the  wild  gazelle, 

And  jealous  as  a  lover, 


A  YANKEE  NOTION. 


35 


Proud  France  can  never  conquer  thee, 
Though  half  the  world  abet  her  ; 

Brave  Ishmael’s  armed  hand  is  free, 

And  spurns  the  Gallic  fetter. 

In  Egypt  something  you  may  trace 
Of  those  who  used  to  fool  it : 

“  The  kingdom  always  will  be  base,” 

Whatever  chief  may  rule  it. 

Of  plagues  before,  they  had  their  share, 
Sufficient  to  content  ’em  ; 

They ’ve  now  the  Lion  *  and  the  Bear  f  — 

I  guess  that  mammon  sent  ’em. 

Of  Greece  I  hardly  dare  to  note, 

Since  I  have  heard  a  rumor 

A  fellow  lived  there  once  who  wrote  — 

I  think  his  name  was  Homer ; 

And  as  he  was  a  fighting  chap, 

And  something  sort  o’  knowing, 

I  fear  his  ghost  might  burst  its  trap, 

And  give  my  muse  a  blowing. 

Of  Turkey —  what  a  Yankee  name, 

And  coupled  with  Thanksgiving  — 

Their  fellows,  to  a  chick,  are  game, 

So  let  them  have  a  living. 

Of  Mahomet  they  long  have  dreamed, 

Their  idol  and  their  terror  ; 

But  when  the  press  their  brains  have  steamed 
They  ’ll  wake,  and  find  their  error. 


*  England. 


t  Russia. 


36 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


The  Indies, —  Heaven  defend  the  mark, — 
John  Bull,  what  are  you  doin'? 

You’ve  scarcely  left  them  half  a  sark,  — 

I  fear  you  ’ll  prove  their  ruin. 

Not  all  the  wealth  in  all  their  mines 
Can  satisfy  your  craving  ; 

Beneath  your  rule  all  India  pines  — 

You  play  the  devil  at  shaving. 

The  great  Celestial  Emperor 
Is  vexed  with  your  terrestrials  ! 

Vy,  Vic,  vy  vot  a  vitch  you  are, 

To  vor  vith  the  Celestials  ! 

They  do  not  like  your  nasty  drug  ;* 

And  if  you  try  to  make  ’em, 

They  ’ll  give  you  such  an  Indian  hug 
You  ’ll  wish  you  hadn’t  waked  ’em. 

O  Asia !  what  a  wretched  place 
Since,  by  his  heavenly  warden, 

The  father  of  our  sinful  race 
Was  thrust  from  Eden’s  garden. 

The  Russian,  in  his  whiskered  pride, 

’S  a  kind  o’  clever  fellow  ; 

His  courage  never  yet  denied, 

Especially  when  “mellow”; 

But  let  him  mind  his  own  estate, 

Nor  outrage  Freedom’s  charter, 

Or  he  may  find,  when  ’tis  to  late, 

That  he  has  caught  a  tartar. 


*  Opium. 


A  YANKEE  NOTION. 


37 


Now  bounce  we  back  again  once  more 
To  Denmark,  Norway,  Sweden  ; 

And  here  we  find  the  people  poor, — 
They  never  had  an  Eden. 

Yet  there  they  smile  amidst  their  toil, 
And  dance  to  pipe  and  tabor, 

And  battle  for  a  rugged  soil, 

That  scarce  repays  their  labor. 

And  now  for  dear  America 
I  take  my  ocean  journey  ; 

What ’s  doing  at  the  South,  I  pray  ? 
Can  any  one  discern  —  hey  ? 

Contending  for  they  know  not  what, 
And  murdering  one  another, 

I  wish  their  demagogues  were  shot 
For  making  such  a  smother. 

The  land  is  beautifully  fair, 

The  people  want  converting  : 

We’ll  send  some  missionaries  there 
To  stop  their  bloody  flirting. 

But  I  am  safe  at  home  ag’in, 

And  nation  glad  am  I,  too  ; 

I  hardly  think  'twould  be  a  sin 
If  I  for  joy  should  cry,  too. 

There  ’s  sorrow  everywhere  but  here, 
And  here  it’s  all  caressing  ; 

I’d  whip  the  dog  who  shed  a  tear 
Unmindful  of  his  blessing. 


38 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


New  England  —  land  that  gave  me  birth  — 
I  cannot  overrate  her  ; 

A  single  rood  of  Yankee  earth 
’S  worth  all  the  rest  in  nature. 


Monatiquot !  thy  winding  stream, 

That  through  green  meadows  makes  its  way, 

Reflecting  Sol’s  enlivening  beam, 

And  sparkling  ’neath  his  fervid  ray, 

I  love  on  thy  green  banks  to  roam, 

Where  once  the  Indian  mother  smiled, 

And,  happy  in  her  quiet  home, 

To  ramble  with  her  tawny  child. 

In  thee  she  bathed  the  forest-born, 

And  taught  him  how  to  swim  the  wave  ; 

The  wild  flowers  from  thy  banks  were  torn 
For  wreaths  to  deck  her  infant  brave. 

The  light  canoe  on  thy  fair  breast 

She  launched,  and  taught  the  sturdy  lad, 

With  straining  arms  and  swelling  chest, 

To  paddle  like  his  warrior  dad. 

And  here  the  Indian  taught  his  son 
The  herrings  in  his  net  to  snare, 


TO-MORRO IV. 


39 


Or  with  his  bow  through  woods  to  run, 

To  slay  the  wolf,  and  hunt  the  bear. 

The  white  flint  formed  his  hatchet  then, 

The  bone  his  hook,  the  reed  his  dart ; 

And  often  now,  amidst  the  glen, 

Are  found  the  relics  of  his  art. 

And  here,  upon  thy  quiet  breast, 

The  sea-bird  sheltered  from  the  storm  ; 

And  here  she  built  her  sedgy  nest, 

And  came  her  frosted  wings  to  warm. 

How  changed  the  scene,  Monatiquot! 

Thy  teeming  waters  roll  the  same  ; 

But  vanished  now  the  Indian’s  boat, 

And  far  away  the  Indian’s  game. 

The  white  man  tramples  on  the  graves 
Where  warriors  laid  their  chieftain  down  ; 

And  o’er  thy  gently  gliding  waves 
The  railroad  and  the  factory  frown. 


o-l  [  (sorrow. 


To  the  heart  that  can  hope  tho’  o’erburdened  with  sorrow, 
Futurity  pictures  relief  from  its  pain  ; 

But  dismal  to  him  are  the  thoughts  of  to-morrow, 

Whose  hopes  in  to-morrow  have  long  been  in  vain. 


40 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


The  wretch  to  whom  day  after  day  brings  but  sorrow, 
And  adds  to  his  mis’ry,  already  too  great, 

With  terror  expects  that  the  coming  to-morrow 

Will  bring  some  new  grief  to  increase  his  hard  fate. 

And  if,  from  the  chances  of  life,  he  would  borrow 
The  hope  that  Dame  Fortune  some  good  will  impart, 
That  hope,  as  it  fades  from  his  view  on  the  morrow, 
Adds  gall  to  the  canker  that  preys  on  his  heart. 

In  vain  may  you  urge  him  to  trust  in  to-morrow, 

Whose  wife  and  whose  children  are  suff’ring  for  bread, 
Or  seek  to  plant  hope  in  that  bosom  of  sorrow 
By  telling  him,  “  Verily,  thou  shalt  be  fed.” 

To  hist’ry  he’ll  turn,  where  the  pages  of  sorrow 
That  many  have  famished  too  plainly  reveals  ; 

It  may  be  the  fate  of  his  children  to-morrow, 

With  frantic  distraction  his  breaking  heart  feels. 

In  death  he  would  seek  a  relief  from  his  sorrow ; 

But  who  for  his  wife  or  his  children  would  care  ? 

Ah  !  who  would  watch  o’er  thee,  my  sweet  ones,  to¬ 
morrow, 

If  I  should  resign  thee  to  grief  and  despair? 

Say,  would  you  preserve  some  poor  mortal  from  sorrow, 
And  save  his  young  loved  ones  from  mis’ry  and  woe  ? 
Go  —  go  to  his  hovel  to-day,  not  to-morrow, 

And  from  your  abundance  a  portion  bestow. 


TO  POVERTY. 


41 


In  vain  may  you  hope  that  assurance  he  ’ll  borrow 
From  Him  who  the  “widow  and  orphan  will  save.” 
Hope  flies  from  his  bosom  ;  despair  on  the  morrow 
May  seize  the  poor  victim,  and  bear  to  the  grave. 

1847. 


Some  sing  the  praise  of  Poverty  : 

Of  that,  perhaps,  they  never  knew. 

I  question  their  sincerity, 

And  deem  their  plaudits  all  untrue. 

Let  others  praise  thee,  —  I  will  not ; 

I’ve  known  thee  long,  and  far  too  well : 
Companion  of  my  humble  cot, 

No  good  of  thee  my  tongue  can  tell. 

I  tried  to  drive  thee  from  my  door, 

By  lab’ring  hard  from  day  to  day ; 

But  you  held  fast  forever  more, 

To  thwart  my  course  and  block  my  way. 

In  diff’rent  ways  my  skill  I  tried 

To  oust  thee,  but  my  purpose  failed  ; 

For  all  my  efforts  you  defied, 

And  ’gainst  my  every  scheme  prevailed. 


42 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


The  wise  man  long  ago  declared 
Thou  wert  the  ruin  of  the  poor  ; 

And  ill  enough  by  thee  I ’ve  fared 
Since  first  you  entered  at  my  door. 

Could  I  but  drive  thee  from  my  cot, 

My  thanks  would  make  the  welkin  ring  : 
Let  others  praise  thee  ;  I  cannot, 

Thou  most  unwelcome,  ugly  thing. 


e. 


On  St.  Helena’s  desert  isle 
A  captive  lives  —  the  warrior  chief; 
His  fate  excites  the  coward’s  smile, 

But  fills  the  soldier’s  heart  with  grief. 

I’ve  seen  him  in  the  fight  engaged, 

Like  Hector  dealing  death  around  ; 
And  where  the  thickest  battle  raged, 
There  the  undaunted  chief  was  found. 

I’ve  seen  him  when  the  fight  was  o’er  ; 

Seen  vanquished  kings  for  pity  kneel ; 
Seen  him  their  conquered  lands  restore, 
And  Mercy  sheath  the  warrior’s  steel. 

But  now  their  fetters  hold  him  down  ; 

His  breast  is  bare,  his  sword  is  broke ; 


ST.  HELENA. 


43 


And  each  who  owes  to  him  a  crown, 

Aims  at  his  heart  the  deadly  stroke. 

O  base  Ingratitude!  thy  sting 
Can  deeper,  deadlier  poisons  dart 

Than  all  the  evils  life  can  bring 
Besides,  to  wound  the  noble  heart. 

They’ve  sunk  the  royal  warrior’s  fame  ; 

They  hate  him,  but  they  dare  not  kill : 

All  Europe  trembles  at  his  name  — 

A  lion  caged ’s  a  lion  still ! 

Should  war  convulse  the  world  again, 

And  Fate  his  heavy  shackles  break, 

His  thunders  on  the  battle-plain 

Would  make  all  Europe’s  monarchs  quake. 

If  once  again  on  Gallic  shore 

He  treads,  and  heads  her  gallant  band, 

He’ll  never  go  an  exile  more  — 

His  tomb  will  grace  the  Gallic  land. 


On  hoary  Neptune’s  mountain  pillow, 
Rocked  by  the  ever-fretful  wave, 
Beneath  the  consecrated  willow, 
Repose  the  ashes  of  the  brave. 


44 


MIS  CELLANEO  US. 


No  kindred  round  his  tomb  were  weeping, 
While  ’neath  the  sod  his  corse  was  laid : 
In  this  rude  grave  at  last  he’s  sleeping 
Whom  half  th’  astonished  world  obeyed. 

Yet  shall  the  mem’ry  of  his  glory 
Survive  till  Nature’s  final  doom, 

And  this  famed  isle,  in  future  story, 

Be  known  but  as  Napoleon’s  tomb. 


cene  at 


(On  Sunday  morning,  after  the  sun-rising,  the  trees  and  shrubs,  being  coated 


with  frozen  rain,  presented  a  scene  of  remarkable  splendor.) 

The  diamonds  !  oh,  the  diamonds  ! 

They  are  strewn  upon  the  land, 

Ten  thousand,  thousand  glittering  gems, 
Magnificently  grand. 

Of  every  fashion,  form,  and  hue, 

They  sparkle,  change,  and  glare  — 

The  red,  the  orange,  green,  and  blue, 

And  tints  of  beauty  rare. 

My  garden  seems  a  fairy  bower  — 

Each  shrub  a  jeweled  crown  ; 

It  seems  as  though  the  stars  had  poured 
A  shower  of  diamonds  down. 


WINTER  SCENE  AT  WEYMOUTH. 


45 


Not  all  the  jewels  kings  and  queens 
To  deck  their  persons  wear, 

Can  with  this  frost-gemmed  cedar-tree 
In  elegance  compare. 

Old  oaks  that  still  their  leaves  retain, 

With  shade  of  modest  brown, 

Are  frosted  o’er  with  glitt’ring  gems, 

That  hang  in  garlands  down. 

On  every  twig  and  grassy  mound 
A  beauteous  jewel  shines, 

And  fairer  never  yet  were  found, 

Within  the  Indian  mines. 

The  frost,  and  rain,  and  sun  have  given 
Such  countless  jewels  birth, 

It  seems  almost  a  waste  of  wealth, 

To  tread  them  in  the  earth. 

The  sun,  who  brightens  every  gem, 

Will  melt  them  in  an  hour ; 

But  He  who  made  the  sun  and  them, 

He  only  can  restore. 

Thou  great  Mechanic  !  mighty  One  ! 

To  whom  this  scene  we  owe, 

What  gems  must  lighten  round  Thy  throne, 
If  thus  Thy  footstool  glow  ? 


46 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


0nsw  er. 


How  came  you  to  marry  old  Donald,  friend  Jane? 

I’m  sure  you  can’t  love  him  —  you  must  be  insane  ! 

I  wonder  you  had  him  ;  but  tell,  if  you  can, 

What  led  you  to  marry  that  ugly  old  man  ? 

I’ll  tell  you ;  perhaps  when  you’ve  heard  what  I  say. 
You  ’ll  not  think  me  crazy,  so  listen,  I  pray : 

In  kindness  he’s  father  and  mother  to  me  ; 

I  feel  like  his  child  when  I  sit  on  his  knee. 

A  guardian  and  teacher  he  walks  by  my  side, 

And  well  I  can  trust  in  his  wisdom  to  guide  ; 

He’s  brother  and  sister,  and  uncle  and  aunt ; 

He  knows  all  my  need,  and  supplies  every  want. 

My  nurse  and  physician,  companion  and  friend, 

He  loves  and  respects  me,  and  will  to  the  end. 

You  say  he’s  an  old  man,  but,  Kate,  I  ’ll  engage 
He ’s  younger  than  many  men  not  half  his  age. 

You  say  he  is  ugly  ;  can  that  be  the  case 

When  goodness  shines  through  every  line  in  his  face  ? 
For  more  yet  I  love  him,  and  were  he  not  true, 
Although  you  jeer  me,  I ’d  not  trust  him  with  you. 


BESIDE  THE  WOOD. 


47 


The  lark  arose  on  his  airy  wing 
To  carol  away  the  morn, 

To  the  whist’ling  plough-boy  cheerily  sing, 
And  mock  at  the  turtle’s  moan. 

The  eagle  had  mounted  in  the  sky 
To  gaze  on  the  god  of  day; 

With  a  fearless  wing  and  unblenching  eye 
He  soared  in  the  solar  ray. 

The  little  red  robin  was  perched  on  a  tree, 
Pecking  at  cherries  so  fine  ; 

The  gabbling  geese  ’gan  reveille 
In  concert  with  the  swine. 

The  gallant  cock  led  forth  his  dames, 

And  stretched  his  clarion  throat 

With  a  voice  that  e’en  the  lion  tames  — 
Triumphant  victory’s  note. 

The  thirsty  herds  came  thundering  down, 
To  quaff  their  morning  fare  ; 

The  monarch  oak  scarce  shook  his  crown, 
So  light  was  the  zeph’rian  air. 

’Twas  there  —  ’twas  on  that  lovely  morn, 
Down  by  the  copsewood  side, 

A  beauteous  maiden  caught  my  eye, 

And  I  wooed  her  for  my  bride. 


48 


MIS  CELLANEO  US . 


I  praised  her  for  her  sparkling  eyes, 

That  like  to  diamonds  shone, 

And,  like  all  lovers,  vowed,  with  sighs, 
To  love  but  her  alone. 

With  modest  look  and  downcast  eye, 

A  struggling  smile  and  tear, 

She  asked  me,  with  a  half-born  sigh, 

“  Are  you  indeed  sincere  ?  ” 

“By  Him  who  guides  yon  rising  sun, 

And  hears  the  lover’s  vow, 

If  you  regard  me,  lovely  one, 

No  other  nymph  I  ’ll  woo.” 

She  gave  her  hand,  she  gave  her  heart, 
That  precious  gem  resigns, 

And  now  I  would  not  with  her  part 
For  all  Golconda’s  mines. 

Beside  the  wood  our  cottage  stands  ; 

There  peaceful  comfort  reigns  : 

No  tyrant  lordling  there  commands, 

No  sufferer  there  complains. 

But  there,  our  baby  on  her  knee, 

My  dear  loved  Judy  smiles  ; 

Her  cheering  notes  ring  merrily, 

And  passing  time  beguiles. 

A  stately  elm  our  cottage  shades, 

And  from  a  bending  bough, 

Our  friendly  neighbors’  youngling  maids 
Are  swinging  to  and  fro. 


BESIDE  THE  WOOD. 


49 


The  birds  have  caught  their  laughing  notes 
In  all  the  woods  around  ; 

With  music  from  their  swelling  throats 
The  echoing  hills  resound. 

Small  fruits,  that  little  fingers  stain, 

In  plenty  here  we  find  ; 

While  blooming  flowers  along  the  plain 
Perfume  the  balmy  wind. 

The  ducks  are  swimming  on  the  lake 
That  empties  in  the  bay  ; 

And  in  the  distance,  through  the  brake, 
You’ll  glimpse  the  ocean’s  spray. 

Our  fisher’s  boat,  old  dancing  Bet, 

Is  anchored  on  the  ground ; 

While  hooks  and  lines,  and  spears  and  nets, 
Are  utilized  around. 

Our  petted  dog  is  resting  near  ; 

Though  sleeping  now  he  seems, 

No  sound  escapes  his  listening  ear  — 

A  sentry  in  his  dreams. 

Nor  sin  nor  sorrow  vex  the  heart 
In  our  surroundings  here  ; 

Fair  Nature,  lightly  touched  by  art, 

Makes  all  things  bright  appear. 

From  envy,  strife,  and  tumult  free, 

The  latch-string  out  the  door, 

Health,  plenty,  love,  and  liberty  — 

Ah  !  what  could  Heaven  grant  more  ? 


Dec.  3, 1879. 


50 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


0cJieu  to  FRy  Harp. 


Oh,  I  will  quit  this  harp  of  mine, 

For  it  hath  sung  to  souls  unfeeling, 

Who  heeded  not  while  sounds  divine 

Were  o’er  its  strings  harmonious  stealing. 
Go,  go,  my  harp  ;  neglected,  go  ; 

For  thee  no  tears  but  mine  will  flow. 

Thy  plaintive  strains  they  would  not  hear, 
They  had  not  hearts  for  heavenly  pity  ; 

And  vainly  to  the  adder’s  ear 
I  sang  my  melancholy  ditty. 

Go,  go,  my  harp  ;  thy  sounds  divine 
Have  thrilled  no  human  heart  but  mine. 

The  murmuring  brook  went  soothing  by, 

The  silent  woods  appeared  to  listen  ; 

The  echo  answered  with  a  sigh, 

But  not  a  human  eye  would  glisten. 

Go,  go,  my  harp  ;  neglected,  go  ; 

For  thee  no  tears  but  mine  will  flow. 

And  must  I,  then,  thy  charms  forsake, 

And  of  thine  only  friend  bereave  thee  ? 

Yes  ;  sleep,  my  harp,  no  more  to  wake  ; 

’T  will  give  me  pain,  but  I  must  leave  thee. 
Go,  go,  my  harp ;  thy  sounds  divine 
Have  thrilled  no  human  heart  but  mine. 


MEMORY. 


51 


Where’er  we  are  cast  on  the  ocean  of  life, 

The  scenes  of  our  childhood  we  never  forget ; 

Our  early  companions,  in  pleasure  or  strife, 

Are  fixed  in  our  memories,  and  nestle  there  yet. 

The  dead  and  the  absent,  though  oceans  divide, 

The  unseen  of  years  are  impressed  on  our  brain  ; 

The  objects  we  cherished  return  to  our  side, 

And  we  live  with  our  loved  ones  the  past  o’er  again. 

Before  me  stands  one  to  my  early  days  known, 

To  others  he  bears  the  impress  of  Old  Time  ; 

His  features  to  me,  as  though  chiseled  in  stone, 
Preserved  in  my  memory  still  bloom  in  their  prime. 

I  see  the  young  boy,  with  his  bat  and  his  ball ; 

“  Huzza  for  a  frolic  !  ”  he  halloos  in  glee  : 

He  answers  my  whistle,  and  comes  at  the  call  ; 

I  see  him  the  same  as  he  once  was  to  me. 

We  meet  now  but  seldom  ;  for  fortune  has  placed 
A  distance  between  us  not  often  passed  o’er  ; 

Yet  oft  that  wild  youth  in  my  memory  embraced 
Is  present,  and  makes  the  blood  tingle  once  more : 

His  brow  may  be  wrinkled,  his  hair  may  be  gray, 

Yet  memory  will  paint,  with  the  pencil  of  truth, 

The  boy  as  he  was  when  I  met  him  at  play  — 

The  selfsame  light-hearted,  wild,  frolicsome  youth. 


52 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


And  here  the  young  nymph  who  my  fancy  first  won, 
Though  long  since  departed,  I  think  of  her  yet, 

And  shall  till  my  race  in  this  world  shall  be  run  — 
For  time  cannot  make  me  her  image  forget. 

I  see  her  as  oft  I  have  seen  her  before, 

The  dear  little  romp,  as  she  frolicked  along  ; 

And  grieve  that  in  fact  I  can  see  her  no  more, 

Or  listen  again  to  her  wild  caroled  song. 

Oh  memory !  how  precious  a  blessing  thou  art 
’Midst  trials  and  sorrow!  and  never  in  vain 

I  seek  from  thy  treasures  a  balm  for  the  heart, 

And  bring  the  departed  to  bless  me  again. 


Friendship,  peculiar  boon  of  Heaven, 

The  noble  mind’s  delight  and  pride ; 

To  man  and  angels  only  given, 

To  all  the  lower  world  denied. 

Thus  sang  one  poet,  but  we  find  another 
Has  differed  very  widely  from  his  brother, 
Declaring  friendship  to  be  but  a  name  ; 

But  friendships  differ  —  all  are  not  the  same. 

The  kind  he  censured  we  may  well  be  sure 
Was  not  the  genuine,  the  sound,  and  pure  ; 


FRIENDSHIP. 


53 


For  this,  when  active,  wheresoe’er  we  find, 
Promotes  the  happiness  of  human  kind. 

Man  does  no  act  from  pure,  unselfish  love, 

That  does  not  to  himself  a  blessing  prove  ; 

And  he  who  to  the  suffering  lends  his  aid, 

Will  be  with  a  fourfold  requital  paid. 

That  kind  of  friendship  that  no  test  has  stood, 

That  seeks  its  own  more  than  a  brother’s  good, 

May  prove  at  times  so  selfish,  cold,  and  tame, 

It  scarcely  is  deserving  friendship’s  name. 

The  true  will  prove  its  worth  in  trial  hour, 

And  great,  when  wisely  used,  is  Friendship’s  power 
To  soothe,  to  strengthen,  cherish,  and  defend  : 

Man  knows  few  blessings  like  a  faithful  friend. 

’T  was  one  great  gift  to  man  from  heaven  above, 
And  second  only  to  the  gift  of  love  ; 

When  these  combine,  to  man,  from  Eden  driven, 
They  give  in  this  hard  world  a  glimpse  of  heaven. 

Damon  and  Pythias  were  true  friends  indeed ; 

Each  for  the  other  willingly  would  bleed  : 

On  them  death’s  terror  no  relapse  could  make ; 
Their  confidence  no  circumstance  could  shake. 

This  raised  the  admiration  of  their  foe, 

And  drooped  the  arm  upraised  for  deadly  blow. 
With  virtue  for  its  base,  could  friendship  true 
A  haughty  tyrant’s  cruel  heart  subdue. 


54 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Though  scenes  like  this  in  modern  times  are  rare, 
Still  friends  with  friends  each  other’s  burden  bear ; 
And  hearts  with  hearts  together  will  entwine 
As  firm  as  in  the  days  of  “  Auld  Lang  Syne.” 

Then  let  us  cherish  friendship  here  on  earth  — 

For  surely  first  in  heaven  it  had  its  birth ; 

And  let  no  human  being  e’er  despair 
Who  has  a  friend  on  earth  his  grief  to  share. 

Dec.  25,  1877. 


Never  say  die,  though  the  last  plank  is  sinking  ; 

Boldly  strike  out  and  contend  with  the  wave : 
Ne’er  like  a  coward  be  whining  and  shrinking, 
Hope  for  good  fortune  —  she  favors  the  brave. 
Cling  to  her  wheel ;  it  is  constantly  turning  : 

Upward,  look  upward,  and  manfully  dare. 

Men  by  experience  still  must  be  learning; 

If  you  fail,  try  again,  never  despair. 

Never  despair  while  a  spark  of  life  tarries  ; 

Stand  by  your  flag,  though  in  tatters  it  wave : 
Still  be  your  motto,  whatever  miscarries, 

“  Nil  desperandum ,”  the  flag  of  the  brave. 


Nov.  5,  1859. 


KNO  W-NO  THING. 


55 


now-  Ffeotf^in 


Who  would  n’t  be  a  Know-Nothing 
In  these  degenerate  days, 

Where  Solon’s  wisdom  would  n’t  bring 
A  pennyworth  of  praise  ; 

Where  folly  rules  the  vaunting  class, 

Where  Liberty  is  sold, 

And  he  who  owns  a  face  of  brass 
Commands  the  purse  of  gold. 

Who  would  n’t  be  a  Know-Nothing, 

Where  politicians  fret 
Because,  beneath  the  eagle’s  wing, 

They  can’t  an  office  get ; 

Nor  make  old  Uncle  Sam  believe, 

While  grov’ling  at  his  heel, 

The  things  they  ’re  striving  to  achieve 
Are  for  the  public  weal. 

Who  wouldn’t  be  a  Know-Nothing, 

Where  speculators  thrive 
Like  drones,  who  only  ply  the  wing 
To  rob  the  workers’  hive  ; 

Who  stand  between  us  and  our  food  — 

The  gift  that  God  has  given  — 

Who  quench  the  fires  that  warmed  our  blood, 
And  toll  the  gates  of  heaven. 


56 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Who  wouldn’t  be  a  Know-Nothing, 

Where  doctors  disagree, 

While  quacks  their  countless  nostrums  bring 
To  cure  the  fiddle-de-de  ; 

Where  poor  folks  lack  the  man  of  skill, 
When  cash  is  low  or  out  — 

More  fearful  of  the  doctor’s  bill 
Than  fever,  stone,  or  gout. 

Who  wouldn’t  be  a  Know-Nothing, 

Where  pettifoggers  ply 
Like  hissing  snakes,  the  venomed  sting, 

To  wheedle,  lure,  and  lie. 

And  plead  against  a  righteous  cause, 

For  lucre,  without  shame  ; 

Or  turn,  and  twist,  and  stretch  the  laws 
To  win  a  rascal’s  fame. 

Who  would  n’t  be  a  Know-Nothing, 

Where  ladies  nothing  know 
Except  to  waltz  the  mazy  ring, 

And  dress  to  catch  a  beau  ; 

To  set  their  caps  for  popinjays, 

To  flaunt  their  stylish  gear  ; 

To  fish  for  undeserved  praise, 

And  at  their  neighbors  sneer.* 


*The  author  confesses  that  the  satire  on  woman  is  entirely  unmerited  by 
any  lady  of  his  acquaintance,  and  will  only  apply  to  such  as  he  has  read  of  in 
novels  and  romances.  ' 


KNO  W-NO  THING. 


57 


Who  wouldn’t  be  a  Know-Nothing, 
Where  all  religions  fight ;  f 

Where  each  would  make  the  other  swing, 
And  few  regard  the  right : 

Where  peace-pretending  rev’rends  foam 
Like  bullies  in  a  ring ; 

Who  would  n’t  rather  stay  at  home 
And  be  a  Know-Nothing. 

A  Know-Nothing  then  let  me  be, 

If  but  allowed  to  guess  : 

Law,  physic,  love,  and  politics 
Are  humbugs,  more  or  less. 

Did  I  of  love  as  humbug  sing, 

The  true  I  could  not  mean  ; 

But  that  poor  counterfeit,  a  thing 
So  very  often  seen. 

True  love  will  in  its  mate  confide  — 

Will  constant  to  it  cling, 

And  to  its  harm,  whate’er  betide, 

Will  be  a  Know-Nothing. 

1856. 


t“  Where  all  religions  fight.”  Those  who  prove  their  love  to  God  by 
showing  their  love  to  man,  are  excepted,  of  course. 


58 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


G^ive  PRU  \\)e  Wild  R>otes, 


Let  scholars  with  study  bewilder  their  brains 
To  wring  out  magnificent,  college-taught  strains, 

And  pester  their  muse  till  she  sleeps  o’er  her  harp, 

A  strain  and  a  nod,  then  a  trill  and  a  gape, 

Be’t  mine,  when  I  woo  her,  my  passion  to  show 
By  catching  and  kissing,  and  then  let  her  go. 

* 

Those  wonderful  poems,  exquisitely  fine, 

Though  guarded  each  measured,  grammatical  line, 
Yet  make  no  impression  that  sticks  to  the  head, 
Though  polished  like  silver  are  worthless  as  lead  ; 

So  strict  to  the  rule  and  the  plummet  confined, 
Deficient  in  naught  save  the  image  of  mind. 

Give  me  the  wild  notes  like  the  bugle’s  —  the  wail 
That  moans  like  the  forest  when  swept  by  the  gale ; 
The  words  that  gush  freely  and  warm  from  the  heart, 
Untrimmed  of  their  beauties  by  fashion  and  art  ; 
Rough  nature’s  wild  notes  at  the  free  cotter’s  door  — 
The  music  that  thrills  through  the  hearts  of  the  poor. 

February,  1846. 


The  heavens  above  are  filled  with  snow, 
The  earth  is  painted  deep  below 


A  NEW  ENGLAND  SLEIGHING  FROLIC. 


59 


With  snow  and  sleet,  with  sleet  and  snow, 
’T  is  winter  drear,  ah  me  !  ah  oh  ! 

But  hark  !  what  sound  is  that  I  hear  ? 

The  merry  bells  so  full  of  cheer, 

The  flying  sleigh  approaching  near, 

Or  passing  by  like  Parthian  spear. 

Now  girls  and  boys,  in  warm  array, 

Bring  out  and  tackle  up  the  sleigh  ; 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  away,  away, 

Let  Dobbin  do  his  best  to-day. 

O’er  hills  and  holes  now  see  them  fly, 

Now  sinking  low,  now  mounting  high, 

And  onward,  onward,  still  their  cry, 

Their  loud  laugh  ringing  through  the  sky. 

Now  through  the  drift,  hurrah  !  hurrah  ! 
When  over  goes  the  flying  car, 

And  heads  and  heels  together  jar, 

But  nothing  breaks,  their  sport  to  mar. 

Again  they  pack,  and  closer  stow; 

Push  on,  push  on,  hurrah !  hollo  ! 

And  words  of  love,  in  whispers  low, 

Are  drowned  in  shouts  of  “  Here  we  go  !  ” 

The  tavern  gained,  let  Dobbin  rest ; 

Now  girls  and  boys  your  breeding  test ; 
Strike  up  the  music  with  a  zest, 

And  see  which  pair  will  foot  it  best. 


60 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


Now  join  your  hands  and  make  a  string ; 
Now  rigadoon  and  pigeon  wing  ; 

Salute  your  partners,  that’s  the  thing  — 
The  smacks  that  make  the  ceiling  ring. 

Now  down  outside,  the  light  chasse, 

On  springing  toe  and  supple  knee, 

With  sparkling  eyes  and  motions  free, 

Fal  la,  fal  li,  fal  lo,  fal  le. 

See  sprightly  Bess  and  nimble  Jim, 

So  neatly  formed,  so  slick  and  trim  ; 

How  lightly  o’er  the  floor  they  skim, 

And  few  can  dance  like  her  or  him. 

Jemima  trips  on  quivering  toe, 

And  gives  her  hand  to  laughing  Joe, 

Who  gripes  it  hard  —  I  guess  I  know  : 

With  him  through  life  she’d  like  to  go. 

See  thundering  Sam,  at  pigeon  wing, 
Around  the  floor  his  Dolly  swing, 

So  full  of  glee  he’s  forced  to  sing 
With  voice  that’s  like  a  trumpet’s  ring. 

How  quick  the  hours  have  passed  away  ; 
They’ve  kept  it  up  till  almost  day, 

Till  tired  music  ceased  to  play  ; 

Then  hip,  halloo  !  bring  out  the  sleigh. 

Now  homeward  bound  with  mirth  they  hie  ; 
Old  Dobbin  makes  the  snowballs  fly  ; 


THE  SANCTUM  OF  LOVE. 


61 


And  echo  rings  along  the  sky 
With  li  fal  la,  and  li  fal  li. 

O  loved  New  England!  ever  dear, 
Amidst  thy  storms  of  winter  drear, 
Thy  manly  sports  and  jovial  cheer 
Are  music  to  my  heart  and  ear. 

Thy  sturdy  sons  and  daughters  fair 
Are  strong  as  steel,  and  lithe  as  air, 
With  hearts  to  feel,  and  souls  to  dare, 
Unrivaled  and  beyond  compare. 

Feb.  4,  1854. 


H 


ome 


May  be  sung  to  the  Tune  of  “  Fair  Harvard.” 


I  will  not  forget  thee,  dear  land  of  my  birth, 

Wherever  my  dwelling  may  be, 

But  here  are  my  treasures  —  my  home  and  my  hearth, 

A  rest  and  a  haven  to  me. 

Cho. —  The  sanctum  of  love,  and  the  Eden  of  earth, 
Wherever,  however  we  roam', 

Our  hearts  are  still  with  thee,  our  home  and  our 
hearth, — 

Bright  hearth  and  our  ever  dear  home. 


62 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


From  toil  and  disquiet,  vexation  and  care, 

How  charming  our  own  open  door: 

The  kind,  smiling  wife  and  the  old  easy-chair, 

A  kiss,  and  our  troubles  are  o’er. 

The  monk  in  his  cloister  secluded  may  spend 
His  time  o’er  some  musty  old  tome  ; 

He  knows  not  the  charm  of  a  kind,  loving  friend 
To  brighten  a  hearth  and  a  home. 

The  bachelor,  choosing  his  isolate  lot, 

To  furnish  a  home  may  despair  ; 

In  hovel  or  palace  where  woman  is  not, 

A  hearth  and  a  home  is  not  there. 

The  search  after  pleasure  full  many  have  tried 
While  over  creation  they  roam, 

But  miss  of  their  object,  where’er  they  abide, 

Who  lack  for  a  hearth  and  a  home. 

O  home,  sacred  home !  the  dear  name  has  a  charm 
The  earth  and  the  heavens  have  blest : 

On  earth ’t  is  our  refuge  from  danger  and  harm, 

In  the  heavens  a  mansion  of  rest. 


THE  STORM. 


63 


A  wild  note ’s  in  that  thunder, 

That  bursting  cloud  is  nigh, 

And  half  creation’s  wonder 
Lights  up  the  trembling  sky. 
Like  cracks  in  hell’s  dark  portals 
The  zigzag  lightning  glares  : 
Now  tremble,  guilty  mortals  ! 

Now,  sinners,  to  your  prayers  ! 

Look  !  the  red  bolt,  descending, 
Has  scathed  the  lofty  spire, 

The  massive  fabric  rending  — 

The  house  of  God ’s  on  fire  ! 
Below,  the  flames  are  raging, 

The  cloud  a  torrent  pours  — 
These  hostile  powers  engaging, 
While  heaven’s  artillery  roars. 

The  house  of  God  is  falling  — 

By  Heaven’s  own  hand  it  falls  ; 
In  vain  the  Church  is  calling 
To  save  her  temple  walls. 

That  Power  above  which  decked  it 
With  jewels  rich  and  fair, 

Why  doth  He  now  neglect  it  ? 
Iniquity  was  there ! 


64 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


He  who  in  white  robes  dressed  her 
Condemns  her  to  the  dust ; 

A  spot  is  on  her  vesture, 

Hypocrisy  accurst. 

Her  negro  pew  condemns  her, 

The  poor  white  had  no  place  ; 

The  Holy  One  contemns  her, 

The  Saviour  hides  his  face. 

Had  righteous  hearts  maintained  it, 
Had  only  one  been  found, 

His  goodness  had  sustained  it  — 

It  had  been  holy  ground. 

But  those  who  there  assembled 
Forsook  the  narrow  path  ; 

Their  worship,  all  dissembled, 
Awoke  Jehovah’s  wrath. 

There  sat  the  proud  oppressor, 

And  there  the  artful  knave  ; 

And  shall  the  Lord  caress  her 
Who  fattens  on  the  slave  ? 

How  vain  is  the  pretender 
To  Him  whose  eye  can  see ! 

How  vile  is  the  offender 
By  base  hypocrisy. 


Sept.  22,  1849. 


THE  YANKEE. 


65 


(Tune — Hob  a1  Nob.) 

Away  o’er  the  river,  the  lake,  or  the  sea, 

A  Yankee’s  a  Yankee  where’er  he  may  roam  ; 

And  the  land  of  New  England  —  the  happy,  d’ye  see  — 

Is  his  never-forgotten,  his  dear,  native  home. 

Cho. —  All,  all  for  his  home,  ’t  is  the  favored  of  Jove, 

And  the  land  of  the  Pilgrims  we  honor  and  love ; 

Home,  home,  happy  home,  ’t  is  the  land  of  the  free, 
And  our  jolly  New  England  forever  give  me. 

Where  Neptune  rides  over  his  waters  of  blue, 

There  floats  the  proud  Yankee — his  stripes  and  his  stars  ; 

Where  interest  or  honor  invites  he  ’ll  pursue, 

And  both  are  brought  home  by  our  brave  Yankee  tars. 

To  Europe,  to  Asia,  to  Africa  go, 

Their  forests,  their  lakes,  and  their  rivers  explore, 

The  Yankee’s  light  foot  or  his  fairy  canoe 

Has  graven  some  proof  he  has  been  there  before. 

The  heart  of  a  Yankee  is  faithful  and  sound  ; 

His  home  and  his  country  is  stamped  on  its  core ; 

And  though  he  may  wander  the  universe  ’round, 

His  bosom  will  yearn  for  his  own  cottage  door. 

The  home  of  his  parents,  his  loved  ones  are  there, 

And  quick  beats  his  pulse  as  he  touches  the  strand  ; 

While  pure  from  his  heart  flows  a  warm,  gushing  prayer 
That  God  may  watch  o’er  thee,  his  dear  native  land. 


66 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


Cold  water  possesses  no  terrors  for  him  ; 

The  salt  or  the  fresh  like  a  duck  he  sails  o’er, 
And  pledges  his  country  and  friends  to  the  brim 
In  a  can  from  the  stream  at  his  own  cottage  door. 


* 


Our  fathers  were  as  grave  a  set 
As  e’er  in  social  circle  met ; 

Their  num’rous  pious  acts  will  prove 
Their  hearts  were  fixed  on  things  above. 
Yet  careful,  as  their  deeds  will  show, 
For  all  that ’s  useful  here  below, 
Resolved  their  children  should  be  free, 
They  labored  for  posterity  ; 

But  num’rous  trials  made  them  wear 
The  blended  seal  of  hope  and  care. 
Praise  to  the  dead  !  a  nobler  race 
Have  never  borne  the  human  face. 

The  children  of  these  staid  old  men 
Can  look  quite  sober,  now  and  then  ; 

At  funerals  or  at  church  you  ’ll  see 
Them  show  their  Pilgrim  pedigree. 

But  Fortune,  on  this  favored  shore, 

Has  been  so  lavish  of  her  store, 


*  Printed  Oct.  1 1,  1856,  but  written  long  before  —  at  least  two  years. 


CORN-HUSKING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 


67 


For  one  to  look  exceeding  grave, 

Would  mark  him  now  a  crusty  knave. 

Our  phizes  have  been  getting  short 
Since  Freedom  her  first  lesson  taught, 

And  more  intent  on  fun  and  gains, 

The  quick  blood  dances  through  our  veins. 
The  stubble  in  the  field  is  seen ; 

No  suffering  wretch  is  there  to  glean  ; 

The  Indian  corn,  our  country’s  pride, 

Is  in  the  barn,  all  cut  and  dried. 

’T  was  night  on  Deacon  Symon’s  farm  ; 
Though  cold  without,  within ’t  was  warm. 
The  mighty  chimney  glowed  with  heat, 

Yet  in  each  corner  was  a  seat, 

Where  Tom  and  Peter,  Jake  and  Si,* 
Could  sit  and  munch  their  pumpkin-pie. 
Assembled  in  the  spacious  room 
Some  thirty  damsels  in  their  bloom, 

With  here  and  there  a  matron’s  cap, 

And  some  with  infants  in  the  lap. 

The  girls  have  had  their  quilting  bee, 

And  all  is  frolic,  fun,  and  glee  ; 

But  now  and  then  an  anxious  eye 
Looks  on  the  door,  intent,  but  sly : 

They  knew  their  sparks  would  soon  appear, 
To  share  the  deacon’s  liberal  cheer. 

The  deacon,  —  thrifty  man  was  he,  — 
While  maids  and  matrons  held  their  bee, 


Josiah. 


68 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


Had  sent  the  boys  a  grand  invite 
To  husking  in  his  barn  that  night. 

In  calculation  he  was  skilled, 

Knew  how  one  stone  two  birds  had  killed  — 
The  husking  party  and  the  bee 
At  once,  was  good  economy. 

But  now  the  door  is  opened  wide, 

And  there ’s  the  deacon  ;  by  his  side, 

And  thickly  clustering  in  his  rear, 

Some  dozen  likely  lads  appear. 

They  come  their  partners  to  secure, 

And  lead  them  to  the  husking-floor. 

The  heavy  shawls  are  round  them  cast, 

And  no  one  wishes  to  be  last ; 

And  now  they  march  as  gay  a  band 
As  ever  walked  the  Pilgrims’  land. 

Old  Symon’s  barn  was  long  and  wide, 

And  num’rous  tenants  there  reside  — 

His  horses,  oxen,  cows,  and  sheep, 
Well-housed  and  fed,  in  quiet  sleep, 

But  startled  by  the  unwonted  sound, 

They  look  with  staring  eyes  around  ; 

And  well  they  might,  for  such  a  din 
But  once  a  year  was  heard  within. 

Before  his  guests  a  lofty  pile 
Of  corn  awakes  the  deacon’s  smile, 

And,  seated  round,  each  girl  and  boy 
Prepares  both  work  and  sport  to  enjoy. 

Oh,  hasty-pudding,  hominy, 

And  johnny-cake,  how  good  you  be, 

With  milk  and  butter,  fresh  and  sweet  — 
The  Yankee’s  often  welcomed  treat ! 


CORN-HUSKING  IN  NEW  ENGLAND. 


69 


The  Indian  corn  supplies  it  all, 

A  blessing  both  to  cot  and  hall  ; 

’T  was  you  our  Pilgrim  fathers  found, 

By  Indians  stored  beneath  the  ground  ; 

’T  was  you  who,  in  their  trial-hour, 
Preserved  them  from  gaunt  famine’s  power  ; 
And  we,  their  sons,  will  grateful  prove, 

By  acts  that  demonstrate  our  love. 

Now,  deacon,  fix  the  lantern  right, 

For  husking  needs  but  little  light, 

And  well ’t  is  known  to  every  spark, 

A  kiss  is  sweetest  in  the  dark 

Now  crack  your  jokes,  and  work,  and  play, 

And  mirthful  pass  the  time  away. 

But  stop,  my  lass  —  a  forfeit  here  ; 

Don’t  hide  it,  ’t  is  a  right  red  ear 
Of  corn,  and  you  my  charming  miss, 

By  husking  laws,  must  pay  the  kiss  — 

Or  if  you  will  not  pay  the  stake, 

A  dozen  kisses  I  must  take. 

The  deacon  cries,  “  Put  by  that  ear  ; 

I  ’ll  plant  it  out  the  coming  year  — 

For  ‘like  produces  like,’  ’t  is  said, 

And,  zounds !  I  wish  one  half  were  red.” 
Now  long  and  loud  the  laugh  goes  round  ; 
Another  right  red  ear  is  found, 

And  forfeits  fly  around  the  stack 
Till  e’en  the  deacon  gets  a  smack. 

At  length  the  lofty  pile  is  down, 

The  husks  are  on  the  scaffold  thrown  ; 

By  willing  hands  the  yellow  corn 
Is  swiftly  to  the  gran’ry  borne. 


70 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


And  now  the  fiddler  tunes  his  strings, 
Each  lad  to  meet  his  partner  springs, 

And  all  for  dancing,  wide  awake, 

They  make  old  Symon’s  rafters  shake  — 
And  pranks  and  capers  here  are  played 
Enough  to  scare  an  ancient  maid  ; 

Till  from  the  house  a  horn  is  blown, 

And  well  its  import  here  is  known. 

By  careful  dame  the  feast  prepared 
Is  waiting  by  them  to  be  shared, 

And  lads  and  lasses  quickly  fly 
To  taste  the  deacon’s  pumpkin-pie  ; 

And  goose  and  turkey,  boiled  and  roast, 
And  pork  and  beans,  and  tea  and  toast, 
And  fowls  and  ham,  and  mutton  steaks, 
And  doughnuts,  puddings,  pies,  and  cakes 
Are  smoking  on  the  ample  board, 

And  Symon  looks  and  acts  the  lord  ; 

A  noble  sample  of  the  race 

We  back  to  England’s  patriots  trace  — 

New  England’s  yeoman,  proud  to  toil, 

To  bless  and  guard  Columbia’s  soil. 


\\)Q  FFioon. 


I  wish  thou  wert  a  living  thing, 

That  I  might  tell  thee  how  I  love  thee  ; 
To  thee  my  sweetest  notes  I’d  sing, 

And  sound  thy  praise  to  gems  above  thee. 


WHO'LL  MOURN  FOR  ME? 


71 


I  love  thee  in  thy  crescent  form, 

Nor  less  when  decked  with  all  thy  graces, 

Or  lonely,  struggling  through  the  storm, 

When  all  the  stars  have  hid  their  faces. 

Some  call  thee  changeful,  but  not  I ; 

Thou  keep’st  thy  course,  God  knows,  most  duly  ; 
The  fault  is  in  the  gazer’s  eye, 

That  lacks  the  power  to  see  thee  truly. 

Thou  look’st  on  me  with  thy  sweet  face, 

And  always  look  so  mild  and  cheer’ly, 

I  almost  fancy  I  can  trace 

The  look  of  one  I  loved  most  dearly. 

But  now  good-night,  thou  beauteous  thing  ; 

While  you  o’er  earth  a  watch  are  keeping, 

If  you  won’t  listen  while  I  sing, 

Perhaps  you  ’ll  kiss  me  while  I’m  sleeping. 


FR 


ourn 


Who  ’ll  mourn  for  me  when  I  am  dead, 
Or  note  where  I  may  lie  ? 

Who  ’ll  pause  above  my  narrow  bed 
And  breathe  a  parting  sigh  ? 

Have  I  a  friend  with  heart  sincere 
To  feel  a  pang  for  me  ? 

Have  I  a  friend  to  shed  a  tear 
When  death  shall  set  me  free  ? 


72 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


Let  me  inquire  —  have  I  deserved 
Love  that  defies  the  grave? 

Whom  have  I  with  affection  served  ? 
Whom  sought  from  harm  to  save  ? 

To  whom  did  I  the  helping  hand, 

With  generous  zeal  extend  ? 

How  many  at  my  grave  can  stand 
And  say,  “  There  lies  my  friend  ”  ? 

If  none,  then  I  deserve  that  none 
Should  mourn  above  my  bier  ; 

The  heart  that  kindness  ne’er  has  shown 
Awakes  not  friendship’s  tear. 

How  could  I  rest  within  the  tomb 
If  such  my  lot  should  be  ? 

Or  live  and  hear  that  chilling  doom, 

“  No  tear  will  fall  for  thee  ”  ? 

Oh  !  give  me  in  my  hour  of  death 
One  friend,  if  only  one, 

To  watch  my  last  soul-parting  breach, 
And  friendship’s  duties  own. 


1847. 


Ha,  stranger  —  ha  !  you  are  not  welcome  quite  ; 
Amidst  my  glossy  brown,  one  hair  of  white 


FIREMAN'S  SONG. 


73 


Looks  odd  indeed  —  looks  odd  and  very  queer  : 
What  is  your  business,  and  what  brought  you  here  ? 

Speak !  thou  most  ominous  and  lone  white  hair. 

“  I  will  —  one  word  of  warning,  friend  :  Prepare  !  ” 
Prepare  ?  I  will,  to  oust  thee  by  the  root  ; 

Your  looks  with  my  complexion  do  not  suit. 

You  bring  not  righteousness  enough,  I  doubt, 

To  add  the  honorable,  and,  therefore,  out. 

I  did  not  dream  to  find  you  here  so  soon  ; 

What  is ’t  you  say —  “  With  me ’t  is  afternoon  ”  ? 

What  then  ;  my  limbs  as  yet  are  stout  and  strong, 
And  I  may  hope  to  live,  God  knows  how  long. 

“  How  long  you  do  not  know,”  the  hair  replies  ; 

“  Therefore  regard  my  warning,  and  be  wise. 

“  If  you  would  rob  the  conqueror  of  his  sting, 

Think  on  the  admonition  that  I  bring  : 

Respect  the  warning  of  your  first  white  hair ; 
Prepare  thyself  in  time  —  for  death  prepare.” 


P  ireman’s 


Fire  !  fire  !  the  alarm-bell  rings, 
The  flames  illume  the  sky  ; 
The  fireman  to  his  duty  springs, 
And  “  Fire  !  fire  !  ” ’s  the  cry. 


74 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Away,  away  the  engine  rolls  ; 

On  flying  feet  they  go, 

A  fearless  band  of  gallant  souls 
Who  bravely  face  the  foe. 

Below,  aloft,  where  duty  calls, 

They  mount  the  burning  stair  ; 

On  blazing  roof,  on  tottering  walls, 

What  men  can  do  they  dare. 

Hark  !  hark  !  is  heard  that  wailing  cry  ? 

“  A  babe  is  left  behind  !  ” 

Swift  as  the  eagle  cleaves  the  sky, 

Or  like  the  rushing  wind, 

The  fireman  springs  ;  the  ladder ’s  placed  ; 

The  bursting  flame  is  braved  : 

A  moment  more  his  steps  retraced  — 

The  child,  the  child  is  saved  ! 

A  mother’s  arms  receive  her  child, 

A  mother’s  thanks  are  given  ; 

An  angel’s  hand  the  record  filed, 

And  bore  it  up  to  heaven. 

Then  here ’s  the  gallant  fireman’s  health, 
Who  bravely  fights  the  foe  — 

Who  ventures  life  for  others’  wealth, 

And  dares  what  man  may  do. 

Sustain  him  with  your  helping  hand, 

To  generous  deeds  aspire, 

And  quench  the  desolating  brand 
Of  fire  !  fire  !  fire  ! 


I'M  NOT  A  NON-RESISTANT. 


75 


m  not  a  ife  on-resistant., 

i 


I ’m  not  a  non-resistant ;  I 
Could  for  my  children  smite, 

And  though  I  am  not  quarrelsome, 

For  freedom  I  would  fight. 

And  shame  to  him  whose  coward  heart 
Can  beat  supinely  calm 
While  weak,  confiding  woman  claims 
Protection  from  his  arm. 

I  would  not  an  offender  be, 

Nor  tempt  Jehovah’s  rod, 

But  battling  for  the  rights  of  man, 

With  me,  is  serving  God ; 

Nor  will  I  doubt  the  approving  word, 
Let  but  my  cause  be  good, 

If  to  the  hilt  my  reeking  sword 
Is  dyed  with  tyrant’s  blood. 

I  ask  not  for  a  better  cause 

Than  freedom’s  ;  ’t  is  our  own  — 

The  right  we  claim  from  nature’s  laws 
To  beat  the  oppressor  down  : 

And  he  who  basely  yields  that  right 
Is  but  a  coward  knave  ; 

Who  would  not  for  his  freedom  fight, 
Deserves  to  be  a  slave. 


76 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Bright  star  of  the  morning,  while  gazing  on  thee, 

I  think  on  the  Maker  of  you  and  of  me. 

Myself —  my  own  wonder  ;  but  thou,  lovely  gem, 

Appear  a  bright  pearl  in  my  King’s  diadem. 

How  could  he  —  how  could  he  suspend  thee  up  there, 
And  cause  thee  to  shine  with  a  lustre  so  fair  ? 

How  mighty  His  power,  how  wondrous  His  skill, 

Who  formed  thee,  and  placed  thee,  and  holds  thee  there 
still ! 

Though  ages  on  ages  have  passed  in  review, 

Thy  course  is  the  same,  and  thy  time  ever  true  — 

A  proof  of  thy  Maker’s  great  wisdom  and  might, 

Yet  still  but  a  drop  in  his  ocean  of  light. 

Aug.  10,  1857. 


bines  to 


er. 


(One  and  a  half  years  my  junior.) 


’T  is  Christmas  Eve,  dear  brother  Ben  — 
Just  eighty  years  I  ’ve  seen  ; 

And  now  I ’m  growing  old,  you  ’ll  ken 
I ’m  not  what  I  have  been. 


LINES  TO  MY  BROTHER. 


But  mem’ry  leads  me  back  again 
To  days  of  long  ago  — 

To  scenes  of  pleasure  and  of  pain, 

Of  happiness  and  woe  ; 

When  you  and  I,  two  little  knaves, 

Were  happy  at  our  play, 

Or  leagued  to  fight  the  bigger  braves, 

For  we  were  friends  alway. 

Your  foes  were  mine,  my  friends  were  yours  — 
They  ever  found  it  so  ; 

We  did  not  seek  for  other  cause 
To  mark  a  friend  or  foe. 

Brothers  and  sisters  round  us  clung, 

Father  and  mother  kind  ; 

But  we  were  made  half  orphans  young  — 

Too  young  our  loss  to  mind. 

We  were  one  less  a  dozen,  then, 

And  we  the  youngest  known, 

Save  little  Bess;  now  Frank  and  Ben 
Are  traveling  on  alone. 

Since  three  years  old,  remembered  still 
My  playmate  and  my  pet, 

In  love  we  climbed  life’s  rugged  hill  — 
Descending,  we  love  yet. 

Together  we  have  journeyed  on, 

Though  sometimes  far  apart ; 

However  wide  our  paths  have  gone, 

United  still  in  heart. 


78 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


And  now  I ’m  drawing  near  the  shore 
Where  we  must  all  embark, 

And  I  must  pass  the  river  o’er, 

The  river  cold  and  dark  ; 

But  with  the  eye  of  faith  I  see, 
Beyond,  a  brilliant  view, 

Where  men,  from  earthly  evils  free, 
Their  forfeit  lives  renew  ; 

Where  sin  pollutes  the  soul  no  more, 
Where  sorrow  cannot  stay, 

And  by  His  hand  whom  we  adore, 

All  tears  are  wiped  away. 

What,  then,  may  be  our  portion  there, 
Our  wisest  cannot  tell ; 

But  we  can  trust  our  Father’s  care  — 
“  He  doeth  all  things  well.” 


Dec.  24,  1869. 


(The  following  lines  were  written  after  perusing  the  account  of  an  out¬ 
rage  committed  by  some  English  soldiers,  who  had  entered  Spain  as  friends, 
on  the  person  of  a  young  Spanish  woman,  the  wife  of  a  cottager.) 

Do  you  see  the  old  cottage  that’s  down  in  the  vale, 

Where  no  smoke  from  the  chimney  ascends  — 

Where,  through  the  cracked  casement,  the  wind  and  the  hail 
Their  fury  impotently  spend  ? 


GEE  UP! 


79 


That  cottage  was  mine  —  ’t  was  my  fathers  of  old  ; 

There  Emma  resided  erewhile  ; 

But  ah !  never  let  her  sad  story  be  told, 

Till  Nature  has  spent  her  last  smile. 

The  prints  of  their  feet  in  that  valley  are  seen  — 
The  soldiers  of  Britain  were  there  ; 

But  no  human  tongue  can  describe  the  sad  scene 
That  has  driven  my  heart  to  despair ! 

They  put  out  the  blaze,  in  the  cot  of  the  vale, 

That  pleasantly  glowed  on  the  hearth  ; 

They  opened  my  door  to  the  wind  and  the  hail, 
And  broke  the  sweet  viol  of  mirth. 

They  robbed  me  of  all  that  I  claimed  for  my  own : 

Dishonored,  she  would  not  survive. 

Her  ashes  are  there  ;  they  are  under  that  stone  : 
Though  hid  from  my  sight  they  are  never  alone  — 
Her  ashes  again  will  revive. 


I  would  not  be  a  president,  nor  would  I  be  a  king, 

Or  a  dependant  on  their  smiles  for  any  needed  thing  ; 

But  I  would  be  a  farmer,  with  my  plough,  and  rake,  and  hoe, 
And  cheerily  drive  my  team  along  —  gee  up,  gee  up,  gee 
whoa ! 

Gee  up,  gee  up,  gee  whoa  !  with  plough,  and  rake,  and  hoe, 
Would  cheerily  drive  my  team  along  —  gee  up,  gee  up,  gee 
whoa ! 


.80 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


The  farmer’s  is  an  honest  life ;  a  merry  man  is  he ; 

He’s  bound  to  have  a  host  of  friends,  and  not  an  enemy. 
He  wears  his  hat  before  the  proud,  but  lifts  it  to  the  low, 
And  cheerily  drives  his  team  along  —  gee  up,  gee  up,  gee 
whoa ! 

Gee  up,  gee  up,  gee  whoa  !  with  plough,  and  rake,  and  hoe  ; 
He  cheerily  drives  his  team  along  —  gee  up,  gee  up,  gee 
whoa ! 

The  farmer,  as  a  citizen,  well  understands  his  rights, 

And  Bunker  Hill  is  witness  to  maintain  them  how  he  fights ; 
But,  till  a  new  occasion  calls  to  grapple  with  a  foe, 

He  cheerily  drives  his  team  along  —  gee  up,  gee  up,  gee 
whoa ! 

Gee  up,  gee  up,  gee  whoa !  with  plough,  and  rake,  and  hoe, 
He  cheerily  drives  his  team  along — gee  up,  gee  up,  gee 
whoa  ! 

He  frolics  with  the  dairy-maid,  though  free  from  courtier’s 
wiles  ; 

He  sometimes  wins  a  kiss  or  two,  for  helping  o’er  the  stiles, 
Or  sees,  though  seeming  not  to  see,  should  she  an  ankle 
show, 

And  cheerily  drives  his  team  along  —  gee  up,  gee  up,  gee 
whoa ! 

Gee  up,  gee  up,  gee  whoa  !  with  plough,  and  rake,  and  hoe, 
He  cheerily  drives  his  team  along  —  gee  up,  gee  up,  gee 
whoa ! 

He  gets  a  wife,  a  bonny  one,  who ’s  made  of  sterling  stuff, 
And  his  strong  arms  support  her  well  with  everything 
enough  ; 


THE  TAILOR. 


81 


He  finds  a  treasure  in  her  smiles,  her  cheeks  of  ruby  glow, 

And  cheerily  drives  his  team  along  —  gee  up,  gee  up,  gee 
whoa ! 

Gee  up,  gee  up,  gee  whoa !  with  plough,  and  rake,  and  hoe, 

He  cheerily  drives  his  team  along  —  gee  up,  gee  up,  gee 
whoa ! 

In  time  a  dozen  urchins  spring  around  the  farmer’s  hearth  ; 

Their  voices  make  the  welkin  ring  with  shouts  of  joyful 
mirth  ; 

And  Tom,  and  Sam,  and  Dick,  and  Bill  can  plough,  and 
rake,  and  hoe, 

And  cheerily  drive  the  team  along  —  gee  up,  gee  up,  gee 
whoa ! 

Gee  up,  gee  up,  gee  whoa  !  with  plough,  and  rake,  and  hoe, 

And  cheerily  drive  the  team  along  —  gee  up,  gee  up,  gee 
whoa! 


A  tailor,  you  know,  ’t  is  the  fashion  to  call 

The  ninth  part  of  a  man  :  that  is  rating  him  small, 

And  sounds  rather  grudging  ;  but  if  it  be  true, 

’T  is  more  than  folks  average,  take  the  world  through. 

Though  voted  so  small  he  has  mighty  things  done, 
Since  Adam  was  clothed  by  the  first  tailor  known, 
Who  made  coats  of  skins  our  first  parents  to  dress, 
And  contrived  the  first  fashion  to  hide  nakedness. 


82 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


The  king  on  his  throne  his  importance,  we  know, 

To  the  tailor  he  owes,  for  he’s  made  up  for  show. 
What  a  figure  he ’d  cut,  in  his  crown  and  his  shoes, 

If  the  tailor  to  dress  him  should  chance  to  refuse  ! 

The  beau  who  so  gallantly  steps  by  the  side 

Of  the  dashing  young  miss,  with  her  ensigns  of  pride, 

Were  it  not  for  the  tailor  in  vain  he  might  sigh, 

For  the  maid  would  not  deign  him  a  glance  of  her  eye. 

The  sailor,  so  neat  in  his  jacket  and  trou’s, 

In  vain  would  essay  pretty  Poll  to  espouse, 

Except  to  the  tailor  he  first  is  addressed, 

And  rigs  himself  out  in  a  suit  of  the  best. 

The  merchant,  the  lawyer,  mechanic,  and  all 
Who  wish  for  respect  on  this  sin-laden  ball, 

Dependent  alike  on  the  tailor  are  found 
For  all  the  fine  compliments  passing  around. 

And  he  who  despises  the  tailor’s  fine  art, 

Though  gifted  with  virtues  of  head  and  of  heart, 

Will  find,  to  his  sorrow,  the  saying  prove  true, 

He  is  out  of  the  world  who  the  fashions  eschew. 

Poor  Fido  with  friends  and  with  fortune  was  blest, 

By  all  men  respected,  by  most  men  caressed  ; 

But  fortune  proved  faithless, —  when  not  worth  a  groat, 
He  found  that  his  friends  only  bowed  to  his  coat. 

Yet  dear  were  those  friends,  very  dear  to  his  heart  ; 

’T  was  painful  for  him  with  their  friendship  to  part ; 


ALL  ALONE. 


83 


Nor  lacked  they  of  kindness,  I ’d  have  you  to  note, 
For  all  bowed  again  when  he  got  a  new  coat. 

Take  notice,  then,  all  who  the  tailor  would  slight, 

’T  is  folly  against  him  to  grumble  or  write  : 

Except  you  have  virtues  that  shine  through  your  vest, 
The  world  will  not  bow  to  the  shabbily  dressed. 


011  0!one. 


I  would  not  be  always  complaining  and  sad, 

Yet  we  all  need  some  one  to  make  our  hearts  glad : 
A  friend  is  a  treasure,  and  those  who  have  one 
Are  happy  ;  but  who  can  be  happy  alone  ? 

Alone,  all  alone  —  what  a  terrible  word  ! 

No  mate  or  companion  a  joy  to  afford  ! 

In  Nature  there  breathes  not  a  sigh  or  a  groan 
So  mournful  as  that  — all  alone  1  all  alone  ! 

Then  let  us  still  cherish  the  friends  we  hold  dear, 
And,  absent  or  present,  regard  them  as  near. 

While  leagued  in  affection  with  friends  of  our  own, 
We  never  need  fear  that  cold  sentence  —  Alone! 


84 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Qlone  — 


There  is  a  word  of  doleful  sound 
Oft  uttered  with  a  groan  ; 

It  casts  a  chilling  air  around  — 

’T  is  that  cold  word,  alone  ! 

Oh  !  who  in  life  could  bear  to  be, 
Unknowing  and  unknown  — 

Debarred  from  all  society, 

Alone  —  alone  —  alone  ? 

The  aching  heart  with  none  to  cheer, 
That  comforter  has  none, 

May  vainly  shed  the  blinding  tear 
Alone  —  alone  —  alone  ! 

Ah !  who  the  bitter  fate  could  bide 
To  breathe  the  unheeded  groan, 

A  poor  forsaken  cast-aside, 

Alone  —  alone  —  alone  ? 

Oh  !  if  in  this  cold  world  there  be 
One  being,  if  but  one, 

Who  knows  not  human  sympathy, 
Lord,  leave  him  not  alone ! 


THREE  WARNINGS. 


85 


(i)l}ree  Warnings. 


Three  warnings  —  lame,  and  deaf,  and  blind  ; 

Although  but  partly  so, 

They  serve  as  mentors  to  remind 
That  death’s  not  very  far  behind  ; 

We  must  prepare  to  go. 

We  are  death-sentenced  :  all  must  leave, 
Howe’er  to  life  they  cling  ; 

No  matter  what  they  may  believe, 

Death  claims  each  living  thing. 

Though  death  the  soul  and  body  part, 
Exempt  from  his  control, 

Though  conqueror  o’er  the  human  heart, 
Defiant  of  the  tyrant’s  dart 
Still  lives  the  immortal  soul. 

When  death  and  hell  are  both  destroyed, 
Man’s  ransomed  soul  shall  live  ; 

No  more  by  sinful  lusts  annoyed, 

Live  to  such  pleasures,  unalloyed, 

As  only  heaven  can  give. 


86 


MISCELLANEO  US. 


orisms. 


Sift  wrong  from  right ; 

The  humble  virtues  prize. 

Look  up  for  light, 

And  truth  shall  make  thee  wise. 


Men  bow  to  wealth,  and  honor  noble  blood ; 
But  God  and  angels  love  the  truly  good. 


My  son,  when  sinners  thee  entice, 
Consent  not  thou  to  share  their  vice  ; 
But  boldly  cling  to  Virtue’s  side, 
Though  swearers  scoff  and  fools  deride. 


LINES  WRITTEN  ON  A  BEDQUILT. 

(At  the  request  of  a  sister.) 

Sister,  I  must,  as  you  bid, 

Scribble  on  your  coverlid. 

Many  words  are  waste  of  time, 
Therefore  take  this  simple  rhyme  : 
Hear  it  age,  and  learn  it  youth  — 
Nothing  wears  like  simple  truth. 
Creeds  will  change,  and  systems  fall ; 
Simple  truth  outlives  them  all. 


APHORISMS. 


87 


RIDDLE  FOR  STEPHEN. 

(Written  for  my  little  boy.) 

I  live  in  a  house  that  is  furnished  complete  ; 

It  has  but  two  windows,  and  stands  on  two  feet : 
’Tis  painted  all  over,  from  garret  to  floor, 

And  two  rows  of  sentinels  stand  at  the  door ; 

A  clock  in  the  chamber,  that  constantly  swings, 
A  bell,  with  a  clapper,  that  merrily  rings. 

This  comical  house  is  not  built  very  stout, 

And  if  I  abuse  it  I  may  be  turned  out. 


Jesus  said,  “  He  that  is  without  sin  among  you,  let  him  first  cast  a  stone  at  her.” 

Were  there  but  this  convincing  proof, 

This  righteous  judgment  given, 

My  trusting  heart  had  cried,  Enough  ; 

Thou  art  the  child  of  Heaven. 


*  LOVE  * 

CU'tb  (■K'in^Vteb  Stt&jcG-Lv. 


(i)l?e  ©Id 


Poor  Adam  !  now  I  understand 
How  homeless  was  your  state 

Ere  lovely  Eve  bestowed  her  hand, 
And  came  to  be  your  mate. 

As  you  were  then,  so  now  am  I  — 
Alone,  with  none  to  cheer ; 

On  me  there  looks  no  loving  eye, 
No  love-notes  reach  my  ear. 

It  seems  as  though  but  yesterday, 
With  wife  and  children  crowned, 

My  cot  a  palace  was  to  me, 

And  pleasure  smiled  around. 

Now  some,  away,  at  distance  roam, 
Some  in  the  graveyard  are, 

And  on  this  earth  man  has  no  home 
If  woman  be  not  there. 

But  why  should  I  repine  at  fate  ? 

’  T  were  folly  now  to  mourn  ; 

Best  try  to  bear  my  lonely  state 
With  patience,  though  forlorn. 


92 


LOVE . 


Time  flies  —  it  cannot  now  be  long 
Ere  ends  my  long,  long  life, 

When  I  shall  join  the  absent  throng 
Of  kindred,  friends,  and  wife. 

Till  then,  cheer  up  ;  the  coward  bends  — 
Is  dead  while  yet  alive  : 

Be  thankful  for  your  many  friends, 

And  that  you  still  survive. 

When  warned  to  quit  this  house  of  clay 
E’en  for  a  home  above, 

’T  will  be  no  easy  word  to  say 
Adieu  to  those  I  love. 

To  those  I  love  ;  and  can  it  be 
That  we  shall  meet  no  more  ? 

Faith  answers,  No!  again  you’ll  see 

Your  loved  ones  in  eternity, 

Safe  on  the  heavenly  shore. 


.  ewe  I 

(2 


Another  jewel  to  His  garner  gone  — 

And  few  on  earth  with  brighter  lustre  shone. 

She ’s  gone  to  the  land  of  the  thornless  rose, 
Where  the  bud  of  righteousness  swells  and  blows, 


MY  MOTHER. 


93 


And  she  dwells  beneath  a  cloudless  sky, 
Where  the  dews  of  Love  all  wants  supply. 

Bid  her  relics  adieu  with  a  parting  kiss, 

And  wish  her  not  back  from  that  land  of  bliss. 


Half  sleeping  on  my  mother’s  bed 
I  lay,  a  young  and  careless  boy  : 

My  mother,  bending  o’er  my  head, 

Cried,  “Sleep  —  sleep  on  my  darling  joy.” 
She  kissed  me  ;  though  I  did  not  move, 
I  knew  and  felt  a  mother’s  love. 

That  voice  of  kindness  reached  my  heart ; 

That  kiss  of  love,  I  feel  it  yet ; 

And  death  may  chill  my  mortal  part, 

But  cannot  make  my  soul  forget. 

Through  every  nerve  I  feel  it  thrill : 

She  loved  me  then  —  she  loves  me  still. 

When  driving  on  the  mountain  wave, 

In  danger,  near  the  rocky  shore, 

My  mother’s  blessing  made  me  brave, 

And  nerved  me  for  the  trial-hour. 

Small  were  my  terrors  on  the  sea ; 

I  knew  my  mother  prayed  for  me. 


94 


LOVE. 


Night  came  ;  with  toil  and  pain  oppressed 
I  dreamed  her  worshipped  form  was  near, 

And  on  my  cheek  a  kiss  impressed  — 

The  same  to  infant  memory  dear. 

The  morning  found  me  well  again ; 

My  mother’s  kiss  had  cured  the  pain. 

Through  different  climes  my  course  I ’ve  steered, 
And  various  hardships  had  to  prove ; 

But  ’midst  them  all  my  heart  was  cheered 
By  thinking  on  my  mother’s  love. 

A  mother’s  love  —  what  tongue  can  tell 
How  much  she  loves,  how  true,  how  well. 


[Remembrance. 


I ’m  growing  old,  I  feel ’t  is  so, 

And  Time  and  I  must  shortly  part; 
But  young  or  old,  midst  weal  and  woe, 
One  image  lingers  round  my  heart. 

’T  is  her’s  whom  I  in  childhood  loved, 
With  all  my  heart,  with  truth  sincere  ; 
And  wheresoever  I  have  roved 
That  image  ever  has  been  near. 

It  will  not  quit  its  life-long  hold, 

But  nestles  in  my  bosom’s  core  ; 


JACK’S  HARD  PARTING. 


95 


It  will  not  let  my  heart  grow  old, 

Nor  chill,  till  life  shall  be  no  more. 

Away  to  distant  lands  she  sailed  — 

A  mighty  ocean  rolls  between  ; 

But  time  and  distance  both  have  failed 
Her  image  from  my  eyes  to  screen. 

I  see  her  now  before  me  stand, 

And  clasp  her  to  my  thrilling  breast ; 

And  in  my  own  her  dear  loved  hand 
Again  is  warmly,  fondly  pressed. 

There  must  be  wrinkles  on  her  brow  ; 
Her  raven  hair  must  now  be  gray  ; 

Still  as  I  loved,  I  love  her  now  — 

For  love  like  mine  can  ne’er  decay. 

On  earth  we  ne’er  may  meet  again, 

Nor  know  I  that  she  thinks  of  me  ; 

Still,  in  my  heart  she  will  remain 
Till  death  shall  set  my  spirit  free. 


The  peeping  moon,  the  tell-tale  moon, 
Is  waning  in  the  sky  ; 

And  must  I  leave  you,  love,  so  soon  ? 
My  Nancy,  dear,  good-bye! 


96 


LOVE. 


My  shipmates  all  on  board  have  gone, 
Yet  still  I  linger  here  ; 

And  must  I  leave  you,  worshipped  one? 
Good-bye,  my  Nancy  dear! 

Yet  let  me  fold  you  to  my  heart ; 

One  kiss,  and  then  away. 

’T  is  hard  indeed  from  you  to  part  — 
Adieu  !  ’t  is  almost  day. 

Yet  one  kiss  more  before  I  go, 

Then  must  I  leave  you  here  ; 

You  have  my  heart,  you  have  my  vow  — 
Adieu,  my  Nancy  dear  ! 

The  clouds  reflect  the  rising  sun  ; 

I  must  no  longer  dwell : 

Good-bye,  my  love,  my  cherished  one, 
My  Nancy  dear,  farewell ! 


Ft 


aomi. 


Entreat  me  not  to  leave  thee, 

Naomi, —  do  not  so  ; 

Thy  daughter  would  not  grieve  thee, 

But  from  thee  will  not  go. 

With  thee  I  ’ll  bide,  with  thee  I  ’ll  roam, 
And  where  thou  dwellest  make  my  home. 


K ISSES. 


97 


And  wheresoe’er  thou  diest, 

There  will  thy  daughter  die  ; 

The  grave  wherein  thou  liest, 

There  will  thy  daughter  lie. 

Thy  people,  mother,  shall  be  mine, 
And  Ruth  will  kneel  at  Israel’s  shrine. 


Of  kisses,  how  many  of  diff ’rent  degrees  ! 

Some  given  to  pleasure,  some  given  to  tease ; 

Some  ardent  and  warm,  some  chilling  to  freeze. 
The  kiss  of  politeness,  although  not  amiss, 

Is  hardly  deserving  the  name  of  a  kiss. 

The  kiss  of  a  J udas  —  not  common,  we  hope  ;  — 
The  kiss  of  an  image  ;  the  toe  of  a  Pope  ; 

The  young  lady’s  kiss  who  with  Tom  would  elope ; 
The  kisses  of  friendship  ;  the  kiss  of  good-will ; 
The  kiss  of  affection  —  ah  !  that ’s  better  still. 

And  is  there  another  that ’s  better  than  this  ? 

Yes  ;  far,  far  more  precious  is  love’s  honeyed  kiss : 
Where  souls  are  united,  and  heart  to  heart  beats, 

A  love-kiss  is  sweetest  of  all  the  known  sweets. 

A  love-kiss  —  how  rare!  underneath  the  great  sun 
How  few  can  say,  truly,  they  ever  had  one! 


98 


LOVE. 


How  many  are  married,  and  boast  of  their  bliss, 

Who  never  yet  tasted  an  honest  love-kiss  ! 

A  youth  lured  by  beauty,  and  miss,  in  her  teens, 

May  kiss,  and  yet  neither  may  know  what  love  means. 
No  passion  so  gen’rous,  so  lasting,  and  strong, 

Love  thinketh  no  evil,  love  doeth  no  wrong  ; 

’  Midst  Fortune’s  vagaries,  her  smile  or  her  frown, 
The  wave  cannot  quench  it,  the  floods  cannot  drown. 
Though  not  all  unselfish,  real  lovers  would  give 
Their  all,  even  life,  that  their  loved  ones  might  live. 

Though  hundreds  of  kisses  your  mem’ries  recall, 

One  love-kiss  remembered  outvalues  them  all ; 

So,  ’mongst  the  acquaintance  you  have  on  your  list, 
Some  dozens,  perhaps,  you’ve  been  kissed  by  or 
kissed. 

You  count  them  all  friends,  but,  tried  in  the  long  run, 
You’ll  think  yourself  lucky  if  you  have  found  one. 

And  so ’t  is  with  kisses  —  though  many  you  get, 

A  love-kiss,  perhaps,  you  have  not  tasted  yet. 


(Reply  to  the  question,  “  What  is  love  ?  ”) 

Love  is  of  different  kinds  —  the  meek, 
The  ardent,  and  the  strong  ; 

The  love  that  does,  or  does  not,  speak, 
The  old  love,  and  the  young. 


TO  MISS 


99 


You  ask  me,  “  What  is  love  ?  ”  That  kind 
That  with  the  truth  prevails  ; 

That  something  which  two  hearts  can  bind, 
And  never  fades  or  fails. 

How  can  I  answer?  You  must  feel, 

To  know  it  as  it  is  ; 

No  pictured  language  can  reveal 
This  highest  human  bliss. 

There  is  a  mystic  cord,  a  tie 
That  cannot  be  defined, 

That  round  the  tendrils  of  the  heart, 

If  fairly  once  entwined, 

The  binding  knot  will  not  unfold, 

Howe’er  severely  tried  ; 

It  will  not  slip,  nor  loose  its  hold, 

Nor  can  e’en  death  divide. 

There  is  a  cause  for  this,  we  know, 

But  all  in  vain  we  try 

To  search  it  out  —  it  vaunts  no  show, 

And  shuns  the  prying  eye. 

Love,  admiration,  sympathy, 

Are  terms  full  often  used 

To  explain  the  hidden  mystery  — 

Terms  often  much  abused. 

’T  is  more  than  these,  though  here  we  find 
A  portion  of  the  whole 

Of  that  mysterious,  undefined 
Quintessence  of  the  soul. 


100 


LOVE. 


The  wise  and  simple,  rich  and  poor, 

Its  binding  power  have  known  ; 

Still,  “  What  is  love  ?  ”  you  ask  once  more, 
But  answer  there  is  none. 

It  is  a  language  of  the  heart, 

That ’s  to  the  tongue  denied  — 

To  angels  only  known  in  part, 

Yet  none  who  feel  can  hide. 

You’ll  glimpse  it  in  the  soul-lit  eye, 

That  half  reveals  its  bliss  ; 

’T  is  present  in  the  half-born  sigh, 

And  in  the  heart-felt  kiss. 

In  all  the  small  concerns  of  life 
Its  presence  may  be  found  ; 

The  loving  husband,  faithful  wife, 

Make  home  a  holy  ground. 

Both  time  and  distance  love  defies, 

For  mem’ry  will  retain 

The  loved  one’s  image  on  the  eyes, 

Pictured  with  never-fading  dyes, 

And  graven  on  the  brain. 

It  moulds  the  face  ;  it  tones  the  voice  ; 

It  governs  every  move  : 

Whether  we  sorrow  or  rejoice, 

Love  bears  the  stamp  of  love. 

Beside  the  dying  loved  one’s  bed 
You’ll  mark  the  tender  care; 


SOME  THIRTY  YEARS  AGO. 


101 


And,  to  the  mem’ry  of  the  dead, 

The  blinding  tears  in  secret  shed, 

The  grief  that  none  must  share. 

A  father’s  and  a  mother’s  love 
Is  strong  —  so  Heaven  designed  ; 

Brothers  and  sisters  often  prove 
Affectionately  kind  ; 

And  even  friendship  has  the  power 
Congenial  souls  to  bind. 

But  wedded  love,  where  hearts  are  one, 
Expect  not  to  explain  ; 

It  never  has  or  can  be  done, 

And  all  attempts  are  vain. 


Y 


ears 


Some  thirty  years  ago  I  met 
A  lass  with  raven  hair  ; 

I  loved  her  then,  I  love  her  yet, 

For  she  was  kind  and  fair. 

Time  gathers  wrinkles  on  her  brow  ; 

Her  crown  has  lost  its  jet ; 

Yet  still  I  keep  my  marriage  vow  — 
There ’s  witchery  in  her  yet. 


102 


LOVE. 


From  human  faults  she  is  not  free  ; 
Sometimes  she  ’ll  scold  and  fret  ; 

Yet  she  is  ever  dear  to  me  — 

I  love  my  old  wife  yet. 

Time  wears  while  going  down  the  hill. 

But  hearts  will  not  forget ; 

As  first  I  loved,  I  love  her  still, 

Aye  !  dearly  love  her  yet. 

Time  changes  all  things,  we  are  told, 

But  Love  is  Time’s  own  pet ; 

Though  old  as  Time,  while  Time  grows  old, 
Love  never  altered  yet. 

Though  some  affirm  Love  has  decayed, 

And  can’t  with  Time  abide, 

Most  true  the  poet  sang  and  said, 

“That  was  not  Love  that  died.’’ 


You  ask  me  is  my  love  so  fair 
That  none  can  rank  above  her  ? 


I  do  not  know,  I  do  not  care  ; 
I  only  know  I  love  her. 


You  ask  me  are  her  gifts  so  rare 
That  all  the  wise  approve  her? 


OWEN. 


103 


I  do  not  know,  I  do  not  care ; 

I  only  know  I  love  her. 

You  ask  is  she  of  wealth  the  heir  — 
Enough  all  faults  to  cover  ? 

I  do  not  know,  I  do  not  care ; 

I  only  know  I  love  her. 

If  beauty,  fame,  nor  fortune  are 
Her  charms  —  who  can  discover 
A  cause  for  love  ?  I  do  not  care  ; 

I  know  I  dearly  love  her. 

Howe’er  to  others  she  appear, 

If  I  to  love  can  move  her, 

For  this,  for  this  alone,  I  care  — 

To  love  me  as  I  love  her. 

Uncounted  charms  she  may  possess  — 
I  have  not  conned  them  over  ; 

But  be  they  more  or  be  they  less, 

I  love,  and  still  will  love  her. 

Jan.  6,  1877. 


Owen. 


How  charming  looks  the  setting  sun 
When  lovely  Effie  smiles  on  me, 
And  pleasant  sounds  the  evening  gun, 
With  Effie  seated  on  my  knee. 


104 


LOVE. 


But  when  my  love  is  far  away, 

No  pleasure  brings  the  setting  sun  ; 
And,  as  he  dips  his  latest  ray, 

How  mournful  sounds  the  evening  gun. 

I  hie  me  to  my  lonely  bed, 

And  vainly  seek  oblivious  rest ; 

But  there’s  no  rest  for  Owen’s  head, 
Whose  pillow  was  his  Effie’s  breast. 

My  country  calls  me  far  away, 

To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free  : 

My  rebel  heart  will  not  obey  ; 

It  clings,  dear  Effie,  still  to  thee. 


(Lines  on  seeing  a  young  lady,  whose  guilty  lover  had  forsaken  her,  walking 

alone  in  the  evening.) 


Poor  hapless  girl !  a  face  less  fair 
Did  thy  false  lover’s  heart  ensnare  ; 

Yet  none  regardeth  thee. 

And  must  you,  like  a  wand’ring  sprite, 
Rove  unprotected  through  the  night, 
Exposed  to  obloquy  ? 

Have  you  no  friend  on  whom  to  lean 
That  slender  frame  ?  Will  no  one  screen 
Thee  and  thy  fame  from  harm  ? 


THE  FORSAKEN. 


105 


Has  beauty  lost  its  ’tractive  power  ? 

Or  hast  thou,  in  unlucky  hour, 

Resigned  its  fairest  charm  ? 

That  lovely  form  was  ne’er  designed 
By  Heaven  to  clothe  a  guilty  mind  ; 

That  sigh,  which  none  could  feign, 
Might  e’en  suspicion’s  self  persuade, 
Howe’er  thine  erring  steps  have  strayed, 
Some  virtues  still  remain. 

Oh  !  has  the  cruel  spoiler’s  art 
Played  ’round  thy  fond,  confiding  heart  ? 

Thou  base  seduction’s  prey! 

Though  scarce  a  step  from  virtue’s  door, 
Say,  hast  thou  sunk  to  rise  no  more 
Till  the  last  judgment  day  ? 

Oh  !  could  I  from  the  scroll  of  Fame 
Blot  out  the  record  of  thy  shame, 

That  single  action  mine 
I 'd  rather  boast  than  all  that ’s  feigned, 
Or  all  that  sensual  man  e’er  gained 
At  yielding  beauty’s  shrine. 


A  hermit  lived  by  the  mountain-side, 
Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along  ; 


*  Written  many  years  before,  but  first  published  March  23,  1850. 


106 


LOVE. 


Where  the  bald  eagle  stretched  his  wings  with  pride 
O’er  the  lofty  pine  by  the  mountain-side, 

Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along,  ’long,  ’long; 
Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along. 


His  lovely  daughter,  for  whom  I  sighed, 

The  fair  burden  of  many  a  song, 

From  my  father’s  cottage  one  day  I  ’spied ; 

I  snatched  up  my  cap  and  away  I  hied 

Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along,  ’long,  ’long ; 
Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along. 

I  clasped  her  around  her  slender  waist, 

And  I  urged  my  passion  so  strong. 

But  she  would  not  hear  me ;  she  was  in  haste, 

Nor  longer  time  with  me  would  waste, 

Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along,  ’long,  ’long ; 
Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along. 

Away  she  flew  to  ford  the  stream 

Where  the  current  was  rapid  and  strong. 

She  fell,  and  I  heard  her  piercing  scream. 

As  she  floated  down  the  raging  stream, 

Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along,  ’long,  ’long  ; 
Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along. 

On  the  wings  of  love  and  fear  I  flew ; 

My  limbs,  like  a  giant’s,  were  strong. 

Her  floating  tresses  first  met  my  view, 

As  she  passed  the  roaring  waters  through, 

Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along,  ’long,  ’long  ; 
Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along. 


WOMAN. 


107 


I  seized  her  in  my  brawny  arms, 

And  bore  her  in  safety  along. 

My  bosom  throbbed  as  I  viewed  her  charms, 

While  love’s  soft  clarion  rung  to  arms, 

Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along,  ’long,  ’long  ; 
Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along. 

I  placed  her  on  a  flowery  bed, 

That  grew  the  wild  rocks  among. 

While  on  my  breast  she  pillowed  her  head, 

Love  flushed  her  cheek,  and  the  lily  fled, 

Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along,  ’long,  ’long ; 
Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along. 

My  cottage  now  contains  the  maid  ; 

A  fairer  ne’er  shown  in  song. 

Her  silken  tresses  with  flowers  I  braid, 

And  clasp  to  my  bosom  beneath  the  shade 

Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along,  ’long,  ’long  ; 
Where  the  cataract  tumbled  along. 


Woman. 


(Written  in  Auld  Lang  Syne,  but  true  now  as  ever.) 

Beneath  the  stars  that  deck  the  sky, 
And  shed  their  lustre  from  on  high, 


108 


LOVE. 


There ’s  naught  with  woman’s  worth  can  vie 
For  beauty,  faith,  or  charity  ; 

So  high  beyond  all  else  she  soars, 

That  even  lordly  man  adores. 

Who  ever  gazed  on  her  sweet  face, 

Or  felt  her  tender,  chaste  embrace, 

Or  viewed  her  fair  and  graceful  form, 

By  Heaven  ordained  man’s  heart  to  warm, 
But  while  the  beauteous  prize  he  pressed, 
With  grateful  heart  her  Maker  blest. 

Art  thou  unhappy  ?  To  her  go  ; 

Her  smile’s  the  antidote  to  woe. 

Oh,  could  I  like  her  Ledyard  sing, 

I ’d  make  the  lands  he  traversed  ring, 

Till  ev’ry  lordling  of  the  sod 

Should  choose  her  for  his  household  god. 

In  childhood,  who  but  she  could  save 
God’s  beauteous  image  from  the  grave  ? 
Who  has  not  marked  her  feeling  mind  ? 

In  sickness,  who  like  her  is  kind? 

And  though  through  ev’ry  clime  he  roam, 
Poor  man  without  her  finds  no  home. 

In  youth,  when  all  our  spirits  dance, 

She  melts  us  with  her  witching  glance. 

See  next  the  matron  ;  by  her  side 
A  cherub  sits,  its  father’s  pride. 

Who  guides  the  young  and  pliant  mind, 

Till  the  young  shoot  to  heaven ’s  inclined  ? 


WHERE  ARE  THE  LADS  AND  THE  LASSES?  109 


If  guilty,  who  like  her  will  strive 
To  set  it  right,  and  bid  it  live  ? 

Oh  !  hear  an  anxious  mother’s  prayer  : 

In  mercy,  God,  my  children  spare! 

On  me,  not  them,  thy  judgment  pour, 
Thou  whom  I  tremblingly  adore. 

Oh,  what  had  man  without  thee  proved, 
Woman  in  every  clime  beloved ! 

Though  selfish  men  in  fetters  bind 
The  budding  beauties  of  thy  mind, 

And  half  thy  virtues  are  not  known, 

Or  in  the  cot  nor  on  the  throne, 

Yet  with  thee  be ’t  my  fate  to  dwell, 

For  without  thee  this  earth  were  hell  — 

A  desert  wild,  a  joyless  waste, 

Devoid  of  virtues,  arts,  or  taste. 

Exiled  eternally  from  thee, 

E’en  heaven  would  prove  no  heaven  to  me. 

March  30,  1850. 


ere  now  are 


and  f\)e  bs 


asses 


# 

Where  now  are  the  lads  and  the  lasses 
To  whom  I  in  childhood  was  known? 
Departed  from  me,  as  time  passes, 

And  now  they  have  left  me  alone. 


110 


LOVE. 


Not  one  on  the  earth  I  discover, 

Not  one  to  whom  now  I  can  say, 

“  In  childhood  we  well  knew  each  other;”  — 
All,  all  now  have  gone  on  their  way. 

Their  souls  have  gone  home  to  the  Giver ; 

On  earth  I  shall  see  them  no  more : 
Their  bark  has  gone  over  the  river, 

And  left  me  alone  on  the  shore. 

And  yet  not  alone  ;  for,  in  fancy, 

I  bring  them  all  to  me  again  : 

Ben,  Jenny,  Eliza,  and  Nancy 
In  mem’ry  will  ever  remain. 

And  many  more,  dear  to  me  ever, 

Surround  me,  though  seemingly  gone. 
And  will  they  forsake  me  ?  Oh,  never  ! 
They  never  will  leave  me  alone. 

Old  relics  to  me  they  are  bringing  ; 

E’en  Time  will  not  let  them  depart : 
Around  them  my  arms  are  still  clinging  ; 

I  feel  them  still  warming  my  heart. 


owers 


as  well  as 


orns. 


Yes,  there  are  flowers  as  well  as  thorns 
Bestrew  the  path  of  life  : 

For  you  this  aching  bosom  mourns, 

My  daughter  and  my  wife. 


QUEEN  VICTORIA. 


Ill 


And  must  my  heart  dejected  pine 
For  sweets  that  are  my  own  ? 

The  rose  without  a  thorn  is  mine, 
The  violet  ere ’t  is  blown. 

My  feet  in  thorny  paths  have  led, 

My  spirit  needs  repose; 

Oh  !  let  me  lay  my  drooping  head 
By  my  sweet,  thornless  rose ! 

God  grant  my  tender  violet  grow 
In  loveliest  bloom  ; 

And  when  my  head  in  death  lies  low, 

Their  tears  may  o’er  my  ashes  flow, 
Unchanging  love’s  perfume. 


ueen 


(The  following  lines  were  written  at  the  time  of  the  Queen’s  coronation.) 

Victoria,  Queen  of  the  beautiful  Isles, 

The  land  of  our  parents,  d’  ye  see, 

Across  the  Atlantic  we  greet  thee  with  smiles, 

And  send  thee  our  compliments,  free  from  the  wiles 
Of  sycophants  :  listen  to  me. 

The  crown  of  the  kingdom  has  circled  thy  brows, 

And  thine  was  the  oath  to  defend 
A  people  who  cheerfully  paid  thee  their  vows; 

Art  married,  fair  Queen  —  to  Old  England,  thy  spouse, 
Stand  pledged  until  death  to  befriend. 


112 


LOVE. 


The  task  is  most  easy,  the  method  is  plain  — 
Endeavor  thine  husband  to  bless  ; 

The  poor  and  unhappy  in  mercy  sustain, 

Be  grateful  to  Him  who  sends  sunshine  and  rain,  — 
Seek  peace,  and  trust  God  for  success. 


My  harp  I  ’ll  to  the  willow  bind, 

And  watch  beneath  the  mournful  tree, 

To  listen  if  the  sighing  wind 

Will  wake  its  strings  to  minstrelsy  ; 

For  well  I  know  its  notes  will  prove 
A  requiem  to  my  sainted  love. 

Aloft  her  angel  spirit  soars, 

And  wings  toward  heaven  its  certain  way, 

To  meet  on  those  delightful  shores 
The  joys  of  everlasting  day. 

A  soul  more  free  from  vice  than  thine, 
Ne’er  offered  at  Immanuel’s  shrine. 

Affection  wears  the  weed  of  woe, 

And  tender  Friendship’s  tear  will  start ; 

But  would  you  cureless  sorrow  know, 

Come,  read  a  husband’s  breaking  heart. 
Alone  amidst  the  busy  crowd, 

His  joys  are  buried  in  her  shroud. 


AVAUNT,  DESPAIR! 


113 


Beloved  wife,  till  death’s  keen  dart 
Shall  set  this  mourning  spirit  free, 

Thy  virtues,  graven  on  my  heart, 

Shall  consecrate  that  heart  to  thee. 
Another  love  it  ne’er  has  known, 

And  still  it  throbs  for  thee  alone. 

“  Farewell !  farewell !  ”  methinks  I  hear 
Her  parting  spirit  softly  sigh  ; 

Oh,  fare  thee  well,  my  Mary  dear ! 

For  thee  I ’ve  lived,  like  thee  would  die. 
Oh  !  may  my  soul  with  thine  appear  ; 
For  where  thou  art  my  heaven  is  there. 


Never,  ah  !  never  more  in  life 
Will  it  be  my  delight  to  prove 
The  blessing  of  a  loving  wife, 

A  wife  whom  I  can  truly  love. 

No  loving  heart  again  will  press 
Against  mine  own,  mine  own  to  bless. 

Friends  see  I  many  passing  ’round, 

And  many  kind  and  good  there  are  ; 

But  none  to  love  me  here  are  found, 

Till  age,  old  age  suggests  despair. 
Despair !  he  is  the  coward’s  foe, 

A  name  my  race  refuse  to  know. 


114 


LOVE. 


Despair  !  I  have  abjured  his  name  ; 

He  never  comes  within  my  cot: 

Though  I  were  blind,  and  deaf,  and  lame, 
Avaunt,  despair  !  I  know  thee  not. 

I  have  refused  his  yoke  to  take, 

Have  met  him  with  a  steady  eye  ; 

And,  though  the  silver  cord  should  break, 
Would  still  his  serpent  power  defy. 
Hope  ever  nestles  in  my  heart  — 
Tells  me  she  never  will  depart. 

Hope,  smiling  Hope!  thy  beauteous  face 
Has  yet  a  charm  for  every  woe. 

Kind  benefactor  of  our  race, 

Man’s  chiefest  blessing  here  below, 
Who  clings  to  thee  can  conquer  care, 
And  bid  defiance  to  despair. 


W 


oman 


Some  women  like  January,  I  know  — 

As  stiff  as  ice,  as  cold  as  snow. 

’T  is  something  strange  such  birds  should  pair : 
I  envy  none  such  frosty  fare. 


WOMAN  COMPARED  WITH  THE  MONTHS. 


115 


Some  women  there  are  like  February, — 

That ’s  something  nearer  spring,  d’  ye  see, — 
Sometimes  quite  warm,  but  that 's  so  rare, 

If  I  had  one  I ’d  want  a  pair. 

9Ho/tcfv. 

Some  women  like  blustering  March  there  be  — 
More  fretful  than  the  raging  sea. 

Of  noise  and  strife  would  you  beware, 

Of  all  such  women  take  care  !  take  care ! 

ClptiP. 

Some  women  are  like  an  April  day  — 

They  laugh  and  cry  their  time  away. 

Sometimes  they  ’re  foul,  and  sometimes  fair  ; 

If  you  get  two  you ’ve  one  to  spare. 

SHta-tp 

Some  women  are  like  a  bright  May  morn, 

Or  like  a  rose  without  a  thorn  — 

Delightful,  useful,  sweet,  and  fair  ; 

But  then,  such  women  are  wondrous  rare. 


^LIA^C. 

Some  women  are  like  a  day  in  June  — 
Prolific  Nature’s  bounteous  boon. 

Who  gets  one  such  will  lack  no  heir  ; 
And  such  were  Rome’s  peculiar  care. 


116 


LOVE. 


3"% 

Some  women  are  like  a  hot  July  ; 

With  them  wild  Love  dwells  constantly. 
For  wanton  joys  all  risks  they  ’ll  dare  : 
For  all  such  women  let  who  will  care. 


Some  women  are  like  an  August  eve  — 
They  ’ll  promise  fair,  but  oft  deceive  ; 
Their  lightning  squalls  let  men  beware  — 
Who  gets  one  such  must  guard  his  hair. 


Sept  e-i'M-beZ'. 


Some  women  September  well  will  suit, 
When  ripening  hangs  the  tempting  fruit. 
To  get  one  such  shall  be  my  care  ; 

Will  you  be  mine,  my  charming  fair  ? 


October. 

Some  women  are  like  October  seen  — 
Their  withering  leaf  scarce  holds  its  green  ; 
Yet  sound’s  the  trunk,  nor  yet  quite  bare, 
Though  Plenty’s  horn  was  furnished  there. 


Ol-ove-mber. 

Some  women  are  like  November  proved  — 
They  love  not,  nor  can  e’er  be  loved ; 

They  ’re  neither  raw,  nor  roast,  nor  rare, 
Nor  with  them  can  you  comfort  share. 


BEAUTY. 


117 


‘December. 

Some  women  are  like  December  tough  — 
They’re  coarse,  and  loud,  and  dull,  and  rough. 
They  still  look  foul  though  e’er  so  fair  — 

If  you  have  one  you’ve  one  to  spare. 


0eaut 


What  is  beauty’s  fairest  form  ?  A  transient,  fading  flower  ; 
And,  like  the  rose, 

It  buds  and  blows, 

The  plaything  of  an  hour. 

But  yet,  with  all  its  frailties,  still  it  steals  upon  our  hearts, 
And  common  sense 
Is  no  defense 
Against  its  subtle  arts. 

For  gold  and  silver,  wit  and  sense,  it  passes  current  here  : 
If ’t  is  but  nice 
We  pay  the  price, 

But  all  agree ’t  is  dear. 

Though  scarce  possessed  before ’t  is  lost,  to  win ’t  our  all’s 

the  stake :  ' 

We  gain  the  prize 
With  prayers  and  sighs  ; 

It  fades,  and  we  forsake. 


118 


LOVE. 


(On  presenting  her  with  some  lilies  of  the  valley.) 


These  are  lilies  of  the  valley 
That  to  you,  dear  girl,  I  bring ; 

They  are  fairest  of  the  flowers 
That  adorn  our  early  spring. 

Though,  modest  and  retiring, 
They  hide  themselves  away, 

The  fragrance  of  their  loveliness 
Their  hiding-place  betray. 

Fit  emblem  of  the  modesty, 

The  sweetness,  and  the  grace 

That ’s  pictured,  in  its  purity, 
Upon  a  maiden’s  face. 


In  days  long  since  departed 
I  dearly  loved  a  maid, 

For  beauties  that  can  never  pall, 
For  charms  that  never  fade. 


THE  LASSIE  OF  MONATIQUOT. 


119 


My  hairs  are  growing  gray  now, 

But  I  remember  yet ; 

The  charms  that  won  my  fancy  then, 
My  heart  will  not  forget. 

And  memory  brings  her  back  now 
In  all  the  bloom  of  youth  — 

With  all  her  winning  graces  fresh, 
And  all  her  changeless  truth. 

So  freshly  to  my  eyes  now 
Her  maiden  beauties  bloom, 

The  impression  was  a  sure  one  ; 

It  lives  beyond  the  tomb. 

Yet  scarce  can  I  regret  her ; 

This  world  was  not  her  home  : 

A  brighter  and  a  better  is 
Where  sorrows  never  come. 

No  marble  rests  above  her, 

To  tell  where  goodness  lies  ; 

My  bosom  is  her  monument, 

Her  epitaph  my  sighs. 


Oct.  13,  1849. 


The  lassie  of  Monatiquot ! 

So  fair  and  lovely  is  the  maid 
Her  charms  can  never  be  forgot 
Till  all  the  lights  of  memory  fade. 


120 


LOVE. 


Her  dimpled  cheeks  of  rosebud  dye, 

Her  laughing  eyes  of  sparkling  blue, 
With  lips  that  honeyed  sweets  imply 
Embracing  gems  of  pearly  hue. 

Her  glossy  crown  of  bright  brown  hair 
Is  parted  on  her  splendid  brow  ; 

When  loosened,  veils  a  bosom  fair 
As  e’er  enshrined  a  lover’s  vow. 

In  vain  the  pencil  would  portray 
The  sweet  expression  of  her  face ; 

And  all  in  vain  the  poet’s  lay 
Its  winning  witchery  to  trace. 

A  look  both  eloquent  and  calm  ; 

A  form  where  ne’er  a  fault  appears  ; 

A  voice  that  never  fails  to  charm, 

Like  music,  that,  entrancing,  cheers. 

There  is  a  sweetness  in  her  smile 
That  makes  her  presence  ever  dear, 
When  absent  mem’ry  clings  the  while, 
And  holds  her  image  ever  near. 

Fair  lassie  of  Monatiquot! 

The  charms  that  never  fade  are  thine  ; 
For  goodness  harbors  in  your  cot, 

And  there  the  Christian  graces  twine. 

My  light  is  drawing  near  the  shade ; 

The  old  cannot  be  young  again  ; 

But  having  seen  thee,  lovely  maid, 

I  surely  have  not  lived  in  vain. 


Feb.  28,  1872. 


RE  TROSPE  CTIVE. 


121 


Ah  !  here’s  the  old  house  where  my  Jenny  I  courted  ; 

The  grape  and  the  woodbine  are  clinging  there  still ; 
And  there ’s  the  old  swing,  where  so  often  we  sported, 
Made  fast  to  the  elm  at  the  foot  of  the  hill. 

Dear  Jenny,  though  time  with  our  heads  has  been  busy 
Our  hearts  are  untouched,  and  our  spirits  are  light : 
Again  I  behold  you,  the  wild  little  huzzy, 

Who,  sometimes  my  torment,  was  still  my  delight. 

Jump  in —  let  me  swing  you  ;  the  days  of  your  childhood 
You  have  not  forgotten,  nor  can  I  forget ; 

Your  race  through  the  fields,  or  your  romps  in  the  wild- 
wood, 

You  still  can  remember  ;  there ’s  fun  in  you  yet. 

How  varied  the  scenes  since,  as  children  together, 

We  pictured  the  future  all  sunshiny  fair ; 

Bear  witness  the  wrinkles  that  on  our  brows  gather 
How  grievous  our  trials  ;  yet  hope  still  is  there. 

For  love  lent  its  charms  to  uphold  and  console  us, 

And  perfumed  our  path,  that  was  thorny  and  wild : 

In  vain  would  Misfortune  subdue  and  control  us, 

For  Love  in  our  dwelling  with  confidence  smiled. 

The  springs  of  our  youth  will  return  to  us  never, 

Yet  cheerfulness  still  for  our  portion  we  claim  : 

Then  sing  and  be  gay,  wife,  to  me  dear  as  ever ; 

Though  youth  has  departed,  our  hearts  are  the  same. 


122 


LOVE. 


The  old  house  is  falling,  the  old  swing  is  rotten, 

The  vines  have  grown  old,  and  are  passing  away ; 
Yet  ne’er  shall  the  scenes  of  our  youth  be  forgotten, 
And  ne’er  shall  the  love  of  our  childhood  decay. 


PR j  0wn. 


Tune — Jessie,  the  Flower  of  Dunblane. 

I  roamed  o’er  the  highlands  and  searched  through  the 
valley 

While  seeking  a  lass  to  be  bone  of  my  bone : 

When  down  by  the  river  I  saw  my  sweet  Sally, 

I  wooed  her,  I  won  her,  and  now  she ’s  my  own  — 

And  now  she’s  my  own,  and  now  she ’s  my  own ; 

I  wooed  her,  I  won  her,  and  now  she ’s  my  own. 

Oh,  bright  was  the  day  when  I  met  with  my  Sally  ; 

Kind  fortune  befriending,  her  favor  I  won  : 

She  blushed  when  I  hailed  her  the  rose  of  the  valley, 

And  warmly  entreated  to  call  her  my  own  — 

To  call  her  my  own,  to  call  her  my  own  ; 

And  warmly  entreated  to  call  her  my  own. 

Oh  !  who  can  describe  the  sweet  charms  of  the  maiden  ? 

The  sun  on  a  fairer  has  never  yet  shone : 

The  echoes  around  with  her  praises  are  laden  ; 

She ’s  good  as  she ’s  lovely,  my  dear  one,  my  own  — 

My  dear  one,  my  own  —  my  dear  one,  my  own  ; 

She’s  good  as  she ’s  lovely,  my  dear  one,  my  own. 


WOMAN'S  LOVE. 


123 


Oh  !  joy  to  the  heart  of  her  father  and  mother, 

Who  gave  me  their  rosebud  before  it  was  blown; 

The  hills  nor  the  valleys  can’t  boast  such  another 
As  my  dearest  Sally,  my  beauty,  my  own  — 

My  beauty,  my  own  —  my  beauty,  my  own  ; 

As  my  dearest  Sally,  my  beauty,  my  own. 

Oh,  bless’d  be  the  day  when,  beside  the  fair  river, 

Allured  by  her  music,  I  found  her  alone  : 

Though  fear  of  offending  my  heart  caused  to  quiver, 

I  wooed  her,  I  won  her,  and  now  she ’s  my  own  — 

And  now  she’s  my  own,  and  now  she’s  my  own; 

I  wooed  her,  I  won  her,  and  now  she 's  my  own. 

The  joys  of  my  heart  since  I  won  my  sweet  Sally, 

To  none  but  the  true-hearted  lover  are  known  ; 

Her  sweetness  diffuses  a  joy  through  the  valley  ; 

She ’s  loved  and  she ’s  honored,  my  true  one,  my  own  — 
My  true  one,  my  own  —  my  true  one,  my  own  ; 

She ’s  loved  and  she ’s  honored,  my  true  one,  my  own. 


W 


oman  s 


Oh  !  dear  to  me  is  woman’s  love, 

More  dear  than  all  on  earth  beside  ; 


Nor  can  I  think  of  joys  above 
If  woman’s  love  be  there  denied. 


124 


LOVE. 


Ten  thousand  pleasures  earth  affords 
To  please  the  taste,  the  fancy  warm  ; 

But  none  the  heart  of  man  records 

Like  woman’s  love,  that  priceless  charm. 

Around  the  world  for  treasure  rove, 

And  gain  and  count  your  jewels  o’er  ; 

Win  every  gem  but  woman’s  love, 

But,  lacking  that,  you  still  are  poor. 

The  last  it  was,  the  greatest  good 
That  Heaven  to  man  in  mercy  gave  ; 

And  woman’s  love  unchanged  has  stood, 

To  bless  the  cradle  and  the  grave. 


Oman. 


Let  those  who  ne’er  her  value  knew, 
Sweet  woman’s  worth  deny  ; 

With  cold  indifference  virtue  view, 
Displayed  in  beauty’s  eye  ! 

I  envy  not  the  flinty  soul 
That  ne’er  affection  felt ; 

The  heart  where  love  has  no  control, 
That  beauty  cannot  melt. 


*  First  lines  ever  published  by  the  author,  in  Ladies'  Magazine ,  Boston, 
Mass.,  about  1807. 


WHERE  LOVE  IS  NOT,  THERE  IS  NO  HOME.  125 


Let  stoics  frown  at  lovers’  bliss, 

And  woman’s  charms  defy  ; 

Be’t  mine  to  taste  the  honeyed  kiss, 
And  catch  the  tender  sigh. 


H 


ome. 


The  world  is  too  full  of  contention  and  wrath ; 

Ill  words  are  the  evils  to  dread  : 

A  heartless  expression  throws  thorns  in  our  path, 
And  maddens  the  heart  and  the  head. 

An  ill-disposed  husband  or  bad-tempered  wife, 
Found  either  in  palace  or  cot, 

Prevent  all  the  joys  and  the  pleasures  of  life, 

And  where  they  dwell  comfort  is  not. 

While  some  know  the  way  to  be  happily  blest, 
Their  heart-cheering  method  they  try  ; 

By  words,  looks,  and  actions,  so  kindly  expressed, 
Ill  humor  and  strife  they  defy. 

Go  over  the  world  with  no  pleasures  denied, 
Through  cities  and  villages  roam  ; 

You  ’ll  find  this  a  truth  whereso’er  you  abide, 

Where  love  is  not,  there  is  no  home,  home,  home, 
Where  love  is  not  there  is  no  home. 


*  PERSONAL  * 


0n  Will  iam  hsloyd  arrison. 


Fixed  as  the  granite  mountains  stand 

While  o’er  them  sulphurous  lightnings  flash, 

Or  island  rocks  sublimely  grand 

While  ocean  billows  round  them  dash, 

So,  Freedom,  stands  thy  noble  son, 

The  firm,  true-hearted  Garrison. 

In  vain  the  slanderer  wings  his  dart 
With  angry  zeal  and  envious  eye  ; 

Back  from  the  pure,  unsullied  heart 
The  foiled  and  broken  missiles  fly. 

Justice,  and  Truth,  and  Freedom  claim 
The  post  to  guard  their  warrior’s  fame 

No  traitor’s  blood  is  in  his  veins, 

No  shrinking  nerves  or  jaundiced  eye  ; 

He  strikes  to  break  the  bondsmen’s  chains 
And  in  their  cause  would  do  or  die : 

Though  friends  desert  and  foes  defame, 

He  swerves  not  from  his  righteous  aim. 


130 


PERSONAL. 


Well  Afric’s  ransomed  children  know  ; 

The  mighty  debt  they  yet  will  pay 

When,  victors  o’er  their  tyrant  foe, 

They  hail  their  Independent  Day. 

Go,  search  the  world  on  every  shore 
Where  Freedom  owns  a  faithful  son, 

And  written  on  his  bosom’s  core 
You’ll  find  the  name  of  Garrison. 

Freedom  has  fixed  his  image  there, 

And  roused  his  heart  to  do  and  dare. 

Will  He  who  armed  him  for  the  fight, 

And  led  him  still  to  victory  on, 

Desert  the  cause  of  truth  and  right  — 
Abandon  thee,  brave  Garrison  ? 

A  voice  is  heard  from  Calvary’s  hill, 

“  Fear  not,  for  I  am  with  thee  still.” 

With  thee  as  when,  in  Freedom’s  van, 

You  strove  to  beat  oppression  down  ; 

When,  battling  for  the  rights  of  man, 

You  scarce  escaped  the  martyr’s  crown  ; 
With  thee  to  second  every  stroke 
That  rends  the  chain  and  breaks  the  yoke. 

The  nation’s  voice  is  with  thee  now  — 

At  first  in  whispers  soft  and  low  ; 

But  now  it  shakes  the  mountain’s  brow, 

A  terror  to  the  guilty  foe. 

Justice  and  Freedom,  hand  in  hand, 

Shall  marshall  Victory  ’round  the  land. 


JOHN  BROWN. 


131 


Though  Treason,  with  chameleon  power, 
May  change  its  colors  to  deceive, 

Its  fate  is  fixed  ;  its  trial-hour 

Will  leave  it  scarce  a  friend  to  grieve. 
And  those  who  followed  in  its  train 
Will  mourn  their  blasted  hopes  in  vain. 


Thoughts  suggested  by  the  Sacrifice  of 


6 


rown. 


’T  is  done,  the  savage  deed  is  done ! 

Oh,  base  Virginia,  shame  to  thee  ! 
Shame  to  your  foolish,  braggart  son  !  * 
Shame  to  your  boasted  chivalry ! 

Oh,  brave  old  man  !  whose  daring  hands 
Were  raised  to  set  the  bondmen  free  — 
To  break  Oppression’s  galling  bands, 

And  strike  a  blow  for  Liberty. 

A  victim  to  Virginia’s  fear, 

In  Freedom’s  cause  the  hero  dies  : 

A  glory  circles  round  his  bier, 

While  in  the  dust  thine  honor  lies. 


*  Governor  Wise. 


132 


PERSONAL. 


Thou  should’st  have  claimed  him  for  thine  own  — 
With  Patrick  Henry’s  wreathed  his  name; 

It  had  a  halo  round  thee  thrown, 

Rekindling  Freedom’s  altar-flame. 

E’en  had  his  weapon  failed  to  spare, 

’T  was  base  the  brave  old  man  to  slay  — 

The  man  who  laid  your  folly  bare, 

And  showed  you  where  your  weakness  lay. 

By  cruel  wrong  to  frenzy  driven, 

John  Brown,  the  fearless,  good,  and  brave, 

Believed  himself  the  elect  of  Heaven 
To  break  the  yoke  and  free  the  slave. 

Go,  now,  of  gallant  Henry  boast ; 

Brown  was  his  brother  —  Freedom’s  child  : 

Undaunted,  each  defied  a  host, 

And  both  by  cowards  were  reviled. 

Successful,  one  is  known  to  fame  — 

A  patriot ;  one  a  rebel  dies  : 

Alike  their  object  —  cause,  the  same  — 

Their  struggle  for  an  equal  prize. 

Henry,  for  self  and  country’s  weal, 

Resolved  on  “  liberty  or  death  :  ” 

Brown,  with  a  high  and  holy  zeal, 

For  the  poor  slaves  resigned  his  breath. 

Dishonored  droops  Virginia’s  star  ; 

Her  ’scutcheon  bears  the  murd’rers’  seal : 

On  Freedom’s  breast  she  leaves  a  scar 
That  time  can  never,  never  heal. 

December,  1859. 


PRESIDENT  JAMES  MONROE. 


133 


bines 

On  the  occasion  of  the  removal  of  the  remains  of  the  lamented  hero  Lawrence, 
from  Halifax,  by  a  public-spirited  gentleman  of  Salem  —  Captain 
Crowninshield. 

Their  sable  bark  flew  over  the  wave 
To  bring  the  corse  of  the  hero  home ; 

They  raised  him  up  from  his  bloody  grave, 

And  now  in  mournful  sadness  come. 

They  pay  him  the  tribute  of  a  tear, 

And,  sorrowing,  bear  him  over  the  surge ; 

They  fire  the  minute-guns  over  his  bier, 

While  the  mournful  music  sounds  his  dirge. 

His  monument  stands  on  his  native  shore, 

With  honors  decked  and  with  laurels  crowned  ; 

The  tears  of  Liberty  watered  it  o’er, 

And  the  sighs  of  friendship  burst  around. 

With  aching  hearts  they  bade  him  adieu, 

And  breathed  a  prayer  for  his  rest  on  high  : 

Farewell,  farewell  to  the  patriot  true, 

Who  dared  in  his  country’s  cause  to  die. 


P resident  ^  ames 
0 


(On  his  Birthday.) 


onroe. 


Let  Albion’s  prostituted  lyre  with  adulation  ring, 

And  servile  poets  join,  for  hire,  to  praise  a  feeble  king. 


134 


PERSONAL. 


Columbia  asks  no  pensioned  bard  to  sound  her  chieftain  s 
praise ; 

His  merits  are  the  Muse’s  reward,  and  prompter  of  her  lays. 

Ten  thousand  harps  by  freemen  strung  shall  tremble  with 
his  name, 

While  notes  of  praise  from  every  tongue  shall  swell  the 
patriot’s  fame. 

No  crown  for  which  ambition  pines,  no  diamonds  deck  his 
crest, 

But  ’round  his  brow  the  laurel  twines,  and  honor  gems  his 
breast. 

In  Freedom’s  ranks  the  stripling  stood,  and  fearless  faced 
his  country’s  foe, 

Poured  out  the  tribute  of  his  blood,  and  helped  to  make  a 
tyrant  bow. 

In  manhood’s  prime  the  statesman  proved  Columbia’s  faith¬ 
ful  friend, 

Still  lab’ring  for  the  land  he  loved,  still  struggling  to 
defend. 

In  riper  years  his  honored  head  is  with  the  garland  crowned; 

The  laurel  wreath  his  blood  has  fed  is  round  his  temple 
wound. 

In  vain  the  British  savage  howled  along  Columbia’s  shore, 

For  beauty  and  for  booty  prowled,  to  plunder  and  deflour  : 

Monroe*  our  favorite  chief  f  directs  to  guard  the  insulted 
land ; 

Booty  and  beauty  he  protects  with  Jackson’s  gallant  band. 

Long  may  he  live  to  hear  the  note  of  gratitude  and  love  ; 

May  it  circling  o’er  his  country  float,  and  bear  his  praise 
above. 


*  Then  Secretary  of  War. 


t  General  Jackson,  at  New  Orleans. 


THE  THREE-CORNERED  HAT. 


135 


(§)l?e  (^>\) 


ree-cornere 


d 


Electioneering  Song  on  Hon.  Benjamin  Austin. 

I  like  the  old  man  with  the  three-cornered  hat ; 

It  reminds  me  of  ’75, 

When  the  hearts  of  our  fathers  went  pat,  pit-a-pat, 

And  Liberty  scarce  was  alive. 

Cho. —  I  like  the  old  man  with  the  three-cornered  hat, 

And  the  honest  old  visage  that  shows  under  that. 

It  bids  me  remember  the  tales  I  have  heard, 

The  aged  report  of  old-time, 

When  the  ship  Massachusetts  by  Hancock  was  steered, 
And  a  three-cornered  hat  was  no  crime. 

He  puts  me  in  mind  of  a  sturdy  old  oak 

That  has  weathered  the  rough,  pelting  blast : 

Though  a  limb  by  rude  lightning  was  torn  off  and  broke, 
The  well-rooted  trunk  holds  it  fast. 

I  like  the  old  trunk,  for  its  scions  will  prove 
An  honor  to  Liberty’s  shore  — 

The  ornament,  beauty,  and  pride  of  the  grove 
When  the  storm-shattered  oak  is  no  more. 


136 


PERSONAL. 


I 

(£ 


ol}n  Gjb  Whittier. 


Gifted  poets  sing  your  praise, 

All  to  honor  you  unite  ; 

Let  me  add  my  humble  lays, 

Though  the  off ’ring  \s  but  a  mite. 

Lover  of  the  human  kind, 

Advocate  of  all  that’s  good, 

Just  and  gen’rous,  brave,  refined, 

You  the  trial-test  have  stood. 

List’ning  to  your  patriot  lyre, 

I  have  felt  the  crimson-glow 

Warm  my  heart  with  strong  desire 
Where  your  bugle  called  to  go. 

When  in  mercy’s  cause  you  plead, 

I  could  lay  my  weapons  by  ; 

When  you  mourned  the  patriot  dead, 
I  for  country,  too,  could  die. 

When  allured  from  wisdom’s  way, 
With  your  faith  I  look  above  ; 

I,  too,  feel  I  cannot  stray 

Quite  beyond  a  Father’s  love. 

Thanks  for  all  the  good  I’ve  gained 
List’ning  to  your  charming  lyre  — 

Harp  of  beauty,  all  unstained, 

Fit  to  join  the  heavenly  choir. 


JOHN  G.  WHITTIER. 


137 


You  are  three-score  years  and  ten  ; 

May  the  Reaper  pass  you  by, 
Still  to  bless  your  fellow-men 
With  a  name  that  cannot  die. 


Feb.  2, 1878. 


I 

(2 


ohn 


Gf.  Wittier. 


“  Peace,  peace  !”  the  Christian  poet  cries 

In  notes  that  wake  the  trumpet’s  sound  — 
Like  the  artillery  of  the  skies, 

That  shakes  the  firmament  around. 

They  sound  above  the  highest  hill, 

And  echo  in  the  deepest  dell : 

Who  hears  must  feel  his  pulses  thrill, 

Must  feel  his  patriot  bosom  swell. 

“  Peace,  peace !”  he  cries  ;  let  Justice  sleep, 
Or  waking,  Mercy’s_voice  obey, 

In  notes  that  tempt  her  sword  to  leap 
From  out  its  sheath,  her  foes  to  slay. 

Peace,  peace,  on  earth  —  good-will  to  all ; 

In  peace  maintain  the  truth  and  right  ; 
But  ev’ry  note’s  a  cannon-ball, 

And  ev’ry  trill ’s  a  bugle-call 

To  rouse  up  warriors  for  the  fight. 


138 


PERSONAL. 


Yet  has  his  trump  no  dubious  sound ; 

Justice  in  ev’ry  pulse  he  feels  ; 

While  Mercy  clings  his  heart  around, 

And  there  they  both  have  set  their  seals. 

Aug.  18,  1866. 


Lines,  on  reading  “  Uncle  Tonis  Cabin ,”  addressed  to 


There’s  music  in  the  human  heart, — 

It  is  a  harp  of  many  strings  ; 

And,  Harriet,  thine  the  potent  art 

Beneath  whose  touch  it  thrilling  sings  ! 

Now,  calm  and  low,  the  music  tells 
Like  the  yEolian’s  whispered  sounds  ; 

Now  like  the  trumpet’s  clang  it  swells, 

And  wildly  shakes  its  prison-bounds ! 

As  soft  as  gentle  Pity’s  tones 

It  steals  the  tear-drops  from  our  eyes ; 

Or,  like  the  storm-rent  forest’s  groans, 

The  maddening  notes  of  vengeance  rise  ! 

Fair  minstrel  of  the  human  heart, 

Who  bids  its  hidden  springs  rejoice, 

Play  on  till  every  fibre  start 

That  chords  with  Freedom’s  cheering  voice ! 


FREEMAN  HUNT. 


139 


The  despot’s  heart,  though  clothed  in  steel, 
And  ribbed  with  selfish  interest  ’round, 
Shall  yet  be  made  thy  power  to  feel, 

And  echo  forth  a  human  sound  ! 


May  31,  1852. 


Hunt. 


R 


reeman 


The  soldier  risks  his  valued  life 
To  win  an  honored  name  ; 

His  thoughts,  amid  the  battle’s  strife, 

On  Victory  and  Fame. 

The  sailor  nails  his  saucy  flag 
Firm  to  the  shattered  mast ; 

To  Fame  he  gives  his  dying  brag, 

And  proudly  breathes  his  last. 

The  statesman  strains  his  highest  power 
To  guard  his  country’s  weal, 

And  while  her  foes  before  him  cower 
She  graves  his  name  with  steel. 

The  preacher  in  the  pulpit  tries 
A  deathless  name  to  win, 

That  may  be  blazoned  in  the  skies, 

Or  Fame’s  snug  niche  within. 

The  artist  strives,  nor  vainly  so, 

To  leave  his  trail  behind  : 


140 


PERSONAL. 


Where  fire  can  burn,  or  water  flow, 

He  makes  his  mark  of  mind. 

And  Fame  for  thee  has  found  a  place, 
Freeman,  so  aptly  named  — 

A  benefactor  to  your  race, 

For  useful  virtues  famed. 

Right  worthy  of  our  praise  is  he 
Whose  charities  abound ; 

But  he  who  scatters  k7iowledge  free 
Is  strewing  pearls  around. 

From  where  the  light  of  knowledge  shines, 
From  where  our  canvas  crowds, 

From  lowest  vein  in  deepest  mines, 

From  mountains  in  the  clouds, 

Your  list’ning  ear  and  searching  eye 
Crude  rays  of  knowledge  drain, 

And  from  your  reservoir  supply 
The  polished  gems  again. 

The  name  of  Freeman  Hunt  will  stand 
Among  the  prized  of  earth  — 

An  honor  to  the  Pilgrims’  land, 

That  gave  a  Franklin  birth. 


Aug.  25, 1849. 


FREEMAN  HUNT. 


141 


Preeman 


Hunt. 


(Editor  of  the  “  Merchant’s  Magazine.”) 


The  poets  are  by  nature  kings ; 

Away  on  Fancy’s  wings  they  rise, 

Soaring  above  all  earthly  things, 

To  make  an  empire  in  the  skies. 

And  from  their  castles  in  the  air 

They  scatter  gems  of  beauty  ’round  : 

The  good,  the  beautiful,  and  rare 
Within  the  poets’  realms  are  found. 

And  oft  the  Muses  them  inspire 
To  picture  many  a  fairy  scene  ; 

But  there  is  one  whose  aim  is  higher, — 
Hunt,  of  the  “Merchant’s  Magazine.” 

“What  is  there,”  asks  a  doubting  youth, 

“  That  ’hove  the  muse’s  wings  can  soar  ?  ” 

’T  is  honest,  plain,  far-searching  truth, 
Whose  watch-tower  looks  creation  o’er. 

The  author  of  the  “  Magazine  ” 

Makes  useful  truth  his  aim  and  pride  ; 

And  thousands  know  his  work  has  been 
The  merchants’  sure  and  faithful  guide. 


142 


PERSONAL. 


All  honor  to  the  working  man 

Whose  labor  lightens  others’  toil  — 
With  nerve  to  act  and  skill  to  plan, 

To  draw  the  wealth  from  every  soil. 

The  distant  nations  own  his  worth, 

And  far  and  near  his  praise  has  rung  ; 
They  value  more  his  book  of  truth, 

Than  all  that  e’er  our  bards  have  sung. 

March  17,  1855. 


(Of  Danvers  and  London.) 

I  like  to  hear  of  thee,  old  man, 

As  following  out  the  Christian  plan  — 

Like  some  kind  spirit  from  above, 
Dispensing  cordial-drops  of  love. 

What  countless  prayers  for  thee  ascend, 
Thou  rich  man’s  teacher,  poor  man’s  friend, 
The  loved  of  nations —  either  side 
The  Atlantic  hails  thy  name  with  pride. 

The  warrior’s  foot  is  heard  with  dread, 
Where  desolation  marks  its  tread  ; 

And  while  the  conqueror  home  we  hail, 

Our  joys  are  checked  by  mourners’  wail. 


THE  MAN  WHO,  THOUGH  LITTLE,  IS  GREAT.  143 


But  thou,  where’er  thy  footsteps  fall, 

A  bounty  bring’st,  a  blessing  call ; 

And  hope  revives  where  Want  and  Care 
Had  led  their  victims  to  despair. 

Long  may  you  live  to  bless  mankind, 
And  win  the  prize  by  Heaven  designed 
For  those  who,  faithful  to  their  trust, 
Are  counted  with  the  good  and  just. 


an  wl?o,  tl?ou  cjl?  brittle,  is  G^reat. 


Some  honor  the  soldier,  some  honor  the  priest, — 

Give  all  men  their  due,  from  the  greatest  to  least ;  — 
But  one  we  all  honor,  and  cannot  o’errate  : 

’Tis  that  little  man  who,  though  little,  is  great. 

And  first,  as  a  soldier,  he ’s  great  in  the  field  ; 

For  temp’rance  he  bears  both  the  sword  and  the  shield. 
Who  battles  her  foemen  through  county  and  state  ? 

That  brave  little  man  who,  though  little,  is  great. 

He  marshals  her  armies,  and  leads  in  the  van, 

And  victory  still  smiles  on  the  brave  little  man : 

His  shot  is  as  sure  as  the  rifle  of  Fate  — 

That  brave  little  man  who,  though  little,  is  great. 

And  next  as  a  priest  he  is  found  at  his  post, 

And  fervently  prays  for  the  whole  human  host : 

No  obstacles  ever  his  ardor  abate, — 

That  good  little  man  who,  though  little,  is  great. 


144 


PERSONAL. 


The  blessings  of  thousands,  so  justly  your  due, 

Are  offered  with  prayers,  Father  Thompson,  for  you, 
The  man  who  for  others  toils  early  and  late  — 

That  good  little  man  who,  though  little,  is  great. 

When  souls  in  the  balance  of  Justice  are  weighed, — 

For  bodies  count  nothing  when  souls  are  assayed, — 
The  soul  of  our  Thompson  will  prove  sterling  weight  — 
That  good  little  man  with  a  soul  that  is  great. 

Feb.  13,  1847. 


Lines  on  the  Death  of  my  old  Master , 


Farewell,  my  good  old  master  ; 

Thy  Maker  calls  thee  home  : 
For  thee  there  is  a  better  world, 
Where  death  can  never  come. 

My  faithful,  good  old  master, 
While  I  thy  merits  scan, 

I  feel  thou  hast  not  left  behind 
A  kinder,  better  man. 

Most  honest  in  thy  calling, 

Most  faithful  to  the  trust, 

For  thee  there  is  reserved  a  place 
Among  the  truly  just. 


DR.  NOAH  FIFIELD. 


145 


For  seven  years  my  master, 

And  constant  to  the  end, 

You  were  a  father  to  my  youth, 

A  kind  and  generous  friend. 

Nor  can  I  e’er  forget  thee 
While  I  on  earth  remain, 

And  hope  that,  whither  thou  art  gone, 
Our  souls  may  meet  again. 


Lines  to  the  Memory  of 


Qj  mou 


tb- 


The  winds  that  now  the  forests  sear, 
Disrobing  with  their  frosty  breath, 

Tell  us  the  reaper  has  been  here, 

The  universal  reaper  —  Death. 

O’er  all  things  living  that  can  die, 

He  holds  an  undisputed  power  ; 

And  all  who  live  beneath  the  sky, 

Death-sentenced,  wait  th’  appointed  hour. 

He  takes  the  good,  he  takes  the  bad  ; 

And,  sparing  neither  rich  nor  poor, 

He  takes  the  joyous  and  the  sad  ; 

His  aim  is  true,  his  dart  is  sure. 


146 


PERSONAL. 


To  one  he  came,  not  unaware, 

Who  long  his  lifted  hand  withstood. 

Remorseless  Death  !  could’st  thou  not  spare 
The  kind,  the  generous,  just,  and  good  ? 

For  others  oft  he  baffled  thee, 

And  turned  aside  thy  pointed  dart : 

Our  prayers  are  vain  —  it  was  to  be, 

Or  thou  hadst  spared  that  noble  heart. 

While,  half  relenting,  thy  rude  hand 
Was  gently  on  his  bosom  laid, 

The  unseen  angels  ’round  him  stand 
To  twine  the  wreath  that  cannot  fade. 

His  virtue  in  our  memory  lives ; 

His  skill  and  kindness  known  to  fame  ; 

And  while  one  grateful  heart  survives, 

That  heart  will  shrine  loved  Fifield’s  name. 

Oct.  23, 1867. 


Extempore  Lines  on  hearing  of  the  sudden  Death  of 


(2 


onas 


* 


The  ready  need  no  warning  ; 
A  minute-man,  he  stands 


*  Mr.  Perkins  was  born  at  North  Bridgewater,  Oct.  15,  1790.  Com¬ 
menced  preaching  for  the  Union  Religious  Society  of  Weymouth  and  Brain¬ 
tree,  October,  1814.  Was  ordained  pastor,  June  15,  1815;  resigned  his 
pastorate  in  October,  i860,  and  continued  to  reside  with  his  people  until  his 
decease,  which  occurred  on  Friday,  June  26,  1874. 


MISS  M.  T. 


147 


At  noon,  at  night,  or  morning 
To  go  when  Heaven  commands. 

Our  Christian  friend  and  neighbor, 
A  vet’ran  in  the  field, 

On  earth  has  ceased  his  labor  — 
His  ministry  is  sealed. 

He’s  gone  across  the  river, 

Old  soldier  of  the  Cross  ; 

His  soul  is  with  the  Giver, 

A  gainer  by  our  loss. 

Farewell,  kind  friend  and  neighbor, 
Our  treasure  we  resign  ; 

For  all  thy  faithful  labor 
Shall  endless  joys  be  thine. 


June  26,  1874. 


Lines  addressed  to  Miss  S.  T.,  of  Weymouth ,  on  the  Death  of  her  Sister, 


What  heart-cheering  sounds  are  those  words,  of  much 
meaning, 

The  home  of  our  Father,  the  home  of  our  friends, 

When  feet  have  grown  weary,  and  head  forward  leaning, 
To  rest  where  our  journey  and  sorrow  all  ends. 


148 


PERSONAL. 


The  home  of  our  Father,  by  Jesus  made  ready  — 

The  home  of  our  friends  who  have  journeyed  before  ; 
The  light  from  their  mansion  shines  brightly  and  steady, 
And  Jesus  invites  to  the  wide-open  door. 

Grieve  not  that  thy  loved  ones  have  gone  on  before  thee ; 

Earth  still  has  its  claim  on  thy  labors  of  love. 

Again  to  their  arms  will  thy  Father  restore  thee ; 

You’ll  all  meet  again  in  His  mansion  above. 


Lines  on  the  Death  of 


iss  ^usan  (ij) ufts,  of  Weymoutlj 


Has  thy  loved  brother  signaled  thee, 
That  you  from  us  have  gone  ? 

Or  this  world  pleasant  ceased  to  be 
When  being  left  alone? 

Alone  !  No  utterance  strikes  the  ear 
So  like  a  wailing  moan  ; 

No  sound  so  desolate  and  drear 
As  that  sad  word,  Alone  ! 

When  all  that  we  have  loved  from  birth 
To  realms  above  have  gone, 

Oh !  who  would  wish  to  stay  on  earth, 
Lamenting  all  alone  ? 


GILMAN  COLLAMORE. 


149 


Father  and  mother  you  will  see 
In  their  bright  home  above  ; 

Sister  and  brother  wait  for  thee 
In  the  blest  realm  of  love. 

Farewell,  my  friend  ;  I ’ve  known  thee  long: 

Benevolent  of  mind, 

From  thee  none  ever  suffered  wrong; 

None  knew  thee  less  than  kind. 

March  7,  1877. 


Gri 


man 


Sollamore, 


(Tribute  of  Gratitude.) 

O  thou  who  befriended  the  poor  and  forsaken, 

And  saved  the  unhappy  from  sorrow  and  care, 

Accept  the  warm  thanks  of  the  sufferer  thou  ’st  taken 
From  poverty’s  cavern,  the  den  of  despair. 

When,  hopeless  and  wretched,  a  prisoner  you  found  me, 
Attacked  by  foes  and  unsheltered  by  friends, 

Your  arm,  like  the  girdle  of  Charity,  bound  me,  — 

Still  succors,  supports  me,  and  warmly  defends. 

Oh  !  health  to  thine  heart ;  Heaven’s  blessings  attend  thee, 
Almoner  of  God  in  this  region  of  woe  : 

May  He  who  hast  sent  thee  still  save  and  befriend  thee, 
Till  forth  to  His  mansion  triumphant  you  go. 

And  when  the  strict  porter  of  heaven  shall  question, 
“Who  art  thou?”  thine  eloquent  soul  shall  declare, 

“  I  am  he  who  has  rescued  the  poor  from  destruction, 

And  saved  the  unhappy  from  grief  and  despair.” 


150 


PERSONAL. 


Lines  on  the  Death  of 


Pale  are  those  lips,  and  cold  in  death, 

That  once  were  ruby  red  : 

Once  perfumed  with  her  honey  breath, 

That  breath,  alas  !  has  fled. 

No  more  those  once  expressive  eyes 
Shall  glad  her  lover’s  heart: 

Vain  were  his  prayers,  his  tears,  and  sighs 
To  avert  the  fatal  dart. 

’T  was  Heaven’s  eternal,  fixed  decree, 

“  The  soul  that  sins  shall  die  ;  ” 

But  sure  that  law  affects  not  thee  — 

Thy  life  was  purity  ; 

But,  for  our  first  great  parents’  crime, 

This  evil  doomed  to  bear, 

Now  transferred  to  a  happier  clime, 

Thy  Maker’s  love  to  share. 

Adieu,  sweet  maid !  thy  virgin  tomb 
Is  bathed  with  mourners’  tears  ; 

And  strewed  with  flowers  of  sweet  perfume  — 

An  emblem  of  thine  early  bloom, 

Thy  few,  but  blameless  years. 


A  TRIBUTE  TO  A  SOLDIER. 


151 


ri 


ibute  to 


a 


Henry  L.,  eldest  son  of  F.  M.  Adlington,  of  Weymouth,  a  Corporal  in  Com¬ 
pany  G,  Tenth  New  Hampshire  Volunteers,  after  fighting  in  many  battles,  was 
taken  prisoner  and  sent  to  Richmond,  where  he  was  offered  good  pay  and  rations 
if  he  would  work  at  his  trade  for  the  rebels.  His  answer  was,  “  I  will  die  first.” 
He  was  sent  to  Salisbury,  North  Carolina,  where  he  is  reported  by  A.  D. 
Richardson  to  have  died,  on  the  28th  day  of  November,  1864,  one  month  from 
the  time  of  his  capture. 

Again  the  mournful  tidings  come  — 

Another  son  a  victim  dies  ; 

I  seem  to  hear  the  muffled  drum 

Borne  on  the  winds  from  Southern  skies. 

Had  he  have  fall’n  by  manly  foe, 

I  would  have  borne  the  heavy  stroke, 

Nor  murmured,  though  the  crushing  blow 
That  stilled  his  heart  my  own  had  broke ; 

But  starved  to  death  in  Southern  den, 

Where  murdered  thousands  swell  the  proof 

That  Slavery  nurtures  things  called  men, 

Whose  footprints  show  the  Demon’s  hoof  — 

Are  these  the  men  for  whom  we  plead, 

The  men  for  whom  we  kindly  care  — 

Men  who  with  husks  their  victims  feed, 

And  starve  by  thousands  in  their  lair  ? 

And  shall  they,  while  their  hands  are  red 
With  blood  of  fathers,  brothers,  sons, 

By  us  be  kindly  clothed  and  fed, 

While  unavenged  our  own  blood  runs  ? 


152 


PERSONAL. 


No !  by  the  first  of  Nature’s  laws 
Let  the  destroyer  be  destroyed  : 

We  have  a  just  and  righteous  cause  — 
Then  let  our -means  be  all  employed 

To  punish,  with  determined  zeal, 

The  soulless,  base,  barbarian  crew  : 
This,  only  this  can  make  them  feel  — 
This  only  give  such  foes  their  due. 

June  17,  1865. 


A  member  of  Company  H,  Thirty-fifth  Regiment  of  Massachusetts  Volunteers  ; 
died  at  Miamiville,  near  Cincinnati,  Ohio,  Sept.  6th,  1866,  of  cholera  — 
superinduced,  no  doubt,  by  the  hardships  endured  when  sent  to  the  aid  of 
Gen.  Grant  at  Vicksburg.  When  Company  H,  of  the  Thirty-fifth  Regi¬ 
ment,  was  forming  in  Weymouth,  he  was  the  first  to  volunteer  in  the  ranks. 


There  is  a  tie  that  binds  us  yet, 

That  death  cannot  destroy  — 

A  father’s  heart  will  not  forget 
His  own  loved,  faithful  boy. 

Dear  Stephen,  I  remember  well 
When  came  the  ’larum  call : 

You  foremost  sprang  the  ranks  to  swell 
Within  that  crowded  hall ; 


WALTER  SCOTT  ADLINGTON. 


153 


And,  faithful  in  our  country’s  cause, 
The  soldier’s  perils  dared, 
Confronting  death  to  guard  our  laws, 
And  every  danger  shared. 

Although  from  battles  safe  returned, 
Yet,  toil  and  trial  worn, 

The  martyr’s  crown  was  fairly  earned, 
And  should  thy  grave  adorn. 


To  my  son,  Walter  Scott  Adlington,  who  died  and  was  buried  near  Budd’s 


Ferry,  on  the  Potomac,  Dec.  7,  1861. 

They  tell  me  thou  art  dead,  my  son, 

And  buried  in  a  distant  land  ; 

But  if  thy  life  on  earth  were  done, 

How  could’st  thou  here  before  me  stand  ? 

By  night  or  day  to  me  the  same, 

I  see  thee  still,  where’er  I  move  : 

Thou  seem’st  to  call  me  by  my  name, 
Awakening  all  a  father’s  love. 

Is  it  thy  spirit  hov’ring  near, 

Not  yet  ascended  to  the  skies? 

And  hast  thou  come  my  heart  to  cheer, 
And  with  thy  presence  glad  mine  eyes  ? 


154 


PERSONAL. 


Thine  image,  graven  on  my  brain, 

Nor  time  nor  distance  can  destroy  : 

Death  had  no  power  to  break  the  chain 
That  binds  us  still,  my  darling  boy. 

There  is  a  world  —  so  prophets  tell  — 
Enshrined  with  glittering  gems  on  high, 

Where  kindred  souls  may  safely  dwell, 
And  tears  be  wiped  from  every  eye. 

There  will  I  hope  my  son  to  see, 

With  num’rous  friends  united  there, 

From  danger,  sin,  and  sorrow  free, 
Rejoicing  in  our  Father’s  care. 

March  18,  1862. 


At  the  Brigade  Hospital,  Camp  Hooker,  Chickamixon,  near  Budd’s  Ferry, 
Maryland,  on  December  7th,  of  typhoid  fever,  Walter  S.  Adlington,  youngest 
son  of  F.  M.  Adlington,  of  Weymouth,  Mass.,  and  a  member  of  Company  F 
Massachusetts  Eleventh. 

The  following  extracts  are  from  a  letter  from  Col.  Wm.  Blaisdell  to  F.  M. 
Adlington :  — 

“  I  can  conscientiously  bear  testimony  to  uniform  good  conduct  and  sol¬ 
dierly  propriety  on  the  part  of  your  son  *  *  *  * 

“  Not  on  the  battle-field  he  died,  but  still  no  less  a  sacrifice  to  duty.  His 
young  life  is  not  without  its  lesson,  and  we  feel  here  the  cause  which  numbers 
amongst  its  defenders  such  bright  spirits  as  W alter  Scott  Adlington  must  be 
blessed  in  its  results  —  insuring  liberty  to  mankind  and  death  to  human 
slavery.” 

His  country  called  ;  his  brave  young  heart 
Responded,  promptly,  firmly,  “  Here  !  ’’ 

Though  hard  from  loving  friends  to  part, 

He  dashed  aside  the  starting  tear. 


WALTER  SCOTT  ADLINGTON. 


155 


A  mother’s  kiss  —  a  father’s  prayer  — 

To  brothers,  sisters,  friends  —  adieu  ! 

The  stripling  laid  his  bosom  bare, 

In  Freedom’s  cause  to  dare  and  do. 

His  country’s  call  must  be  obeyed, 

And,  numbered  with  a  gallant  band 

With  Freedom’s  holy  flag  displayed, 

He  sprang  to  guard  his  native  land. 

And  forward,  on,  as  speeds  the  gale, 

To  Bull  Run’s  bloody  field  of  woe, 

Where  balls  and  shells  poured  down  like  hail, 
The  brave  young  soldier  fought  the  foe. 

Repulsed,  reluctant  to  retreat, 

Yet  still  to  duty  ever  true, 

He  dragged  along  his  wearied  feet, 

Resolved  again  to  dare  and  do. 

But  death  came  near  his  quiet  camp ; 

His  comrades  tried  in  vain  to  save. 

His  eyes  are  closed,  his  brow  is  damp  ; 

They ’ve  laid  him  in  the  soldier’s  grave. 

And  can  I  write  thine  epitaph, 

My  own,  my  dear,  loved,  faithful  boy  ; 

My  aid,  my  sentinel,  my  staff, 

My  hope  and  triumph,  and  my  joy. 

My  darling  boy,  and  must  you  lie 

Where  traitors’  feet  may  plough  the  sod  ? 

Be  still,  my  heart ;  beyond  the  sky 
Thy  loved  one ’s  with  his  Father,  God. 


Jan.  18,  1862. 


156 


PERSONAL. 


Y ouncj  Y 


nte 


er. 


(Air  —  The  Wounded  Huzzar.) 

*  The  following  lines  are  a  versification  of  a  portion  of  several  letters  written  by 
the  comrades  of  Walter  Scott  Adlington,f  a  member  of  Company  F, 
Eleventh  Regiment  Massachusetts  Volunteers,  who  died  at  Camp  Hooker, 
Chickamixon,  near  Budd’s  Ferry,  Md.,  December  7,  1861. 

Far,  far  from  his  home,  near  Potomac’s  famed  river, 
Young  Adlington  slumbers,  the  friend  we  held  dear; 
His  soul  has  gone  forth  to  the  ark  of  the  Giver : 

He  cares  for  our  comrade,  the  young  volunteer. 

No  kindred  were  near,  yet  kind  friends  were  around  him, 
Who  over  his  relics  restrained  not  the  tear. 

Where,  honored,  we ’ve  laid  him  the  angels  have  found  him  ; 
They  watch  o’er  the  grave  of  the  young  volunteer. 

So  faithful  in  duty,  so  kind  and  engaging, 

In  friendship  so  gen’rous,  so  warm,  and  sincere, 

So  firm  when  around  him  the  battle  was  raging, 

Was  Walter,  our  comrade,  the  young  volunteer. 

Farewell  to  our  friend ;  though  so  early  departed, 

His  mem’ry  shall  live  in  our  hearts  ever  near. 

Farewell  to  thee,  Walter,  the  brave  and  true-hearted  — 
Farewell  to  our  comrade,  the  young  volunteer! 


*  First  battle  of  Bull  Run. 

t  He  was  born  in  Braintree,  Norfolk  County,  Mass.,  January  31,  1842. 
Youngest  son  of  Francis  M.  and  Abigail  W.  Adlington,  then  residents  of 
Weymouth,  Mass. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  BRA  YE. 


157 


0rave, 


Low  stoops  the  warrior’s  head  ;  his  crest 
Has  sunk  upon  the  earth’s  cold  breast : 
His  lilied  plume  is  crimsoned  o’er  ; 

His  martial  garb  is  drenched  in  gore. 


His  soul  is  fleeting  fast  away, 

To  quit  its  ruined  house  of  clay  ; 

His  burnished  arms,  that  blazed  so  bright, 
And  glittered  in  the  solar  light, 


Are  bathed  in  blood  ;  that  hand  is  cold 
That  braved  the  boldest  of  the  bold. 

In  Freedom’s  cause  the  martyr  dies, 
And  glory  seals  the  warrior’s  eyes. 

He  fell  amid  the  unconquered  brave  ; 
He  would  not  live  to  live  a  slave. 

His  gallant  heart  disdained  to  yield  ; 

He  died  upon  the  battle-field. 

Plant  o’er  his  grave  the  laurel  wreath  ; 
He  earned  it  with  his  latest  breath. 

“  Victory  or  death  !  ”  was  all  he  said, 
Then  fell  amid  the  glorious  dead. 


158 


PERSONAL. 


His  banner  o’er  his  head  shall  lie 
Who  for  his  country  dared  to  die  ; 
And  no  unhallowed  foot  shall  tread 
The  sod  that  hides  his  honored  head. 


*  PATRIOTIC  * 


©de  for  \\)Q  Rourtl}  of  July.  1818. 


Let  Europe’s  trampled  millions  to  tyrants  bow  the  knee  ; 

We  scorn  the  patient  bondman  who  dares  not  to  be  free. 

All  hail  to  Independence  !  bright  morn  of  freedom,  hail  ! 

Where’er  thy  starry  banner  floats  oppression’s  shackles  fail. 

While  o’er  Columbia’s  ransomed  land  the  flag  of  freemen 
waves, 

Its  motto’s  “Death  or  liberty!  —  our  birthrights  or  our 
graves.” 

All  hail  to  thee,  my  country !  where  Freedom’s  temples 
rise, 

Where  Justice  lifts  her  equal  scales,  and  merit  wins  the 
prize  ; 

All  hail  to  thee,  our  Chieftain,  who  bears  Columbia’s  sword, 

And  points  our  soldiers*  when  to  charge,  our  sailors  when 
to  board. 

While  o’er  Columbia’s  ransomed  land  the  flag  of  freemen 
waves, 

Its  motto ’s  “  Death  or  liberty  !  —  our  birthrights  or  our 
graves.” 

When  Britain’s  vengeful  thunders  sent  death  in  every 
sound, 

When,  in  the  desp’rate  battle-strife,  our  fathers  bled  around, 


164 


PATRIOTIC. 


Your  Chieftain  then,  Columbia,  on  Trenton’s  bloody  field, 

Firm  in  the  ranks  of  freemen  fought ;  though  wounded, 
scorned  to  yield. 

While  o’er  our  then  unransomed  land  scarce  did  this  banner 
wave, 

He  braved  the  roaring  cannon’s  mouth  for  freedom  or  a 
grave. 

Who  bared  his  manly  bosom  to  guard  your  rights  that  day, 

Will  ne’er  desert  his  country’s  cause,  or  give  her  rights 
away. 

Then  wave  the  starry  banner  ’round,  and  fill  the  goblet 
high, 

And  let  the  rattling  cannon’s  sound  proclaim  it  through 
the  sky : 

While  o’er  Columbia’s  ransomed  land  the  flag  of  freemen 
waves, 

Its  motto ’s  “  Death  or  liberty  !  —  our  birthrights  or  our 
graves.” 

We  toast  the  land  of  freedom,  its  Chieftain  and  its  laws, 

Our  vet’ran  fathers  whose  remain,  who  fought  in  Freedom’s 
cause ; 

We  toast  their  sons,  whose  gallant  deeds  to  gazing  nations 
show 

They’ll  shrink  not  where  their  fathers  fought,  nor  stoop 
to  Freedom’s  foe. 

While  o’er  Columbia’s  ransomed  land  the  flag  of  Freedom 
waves, 

Its  motto  still  is  “Liberty !  —  our  birthrights  or  our  graves.’’ 


ANNIVERSARY  ODE. 


165 


Of  the  Washington  Society,  Boston,  July  4,  1819. 


(Tune —  Wreaths  for  the  Chieftain.) 

Sons  of  the  heroes  who  nobly  contended 

For  freedom,  the  richest  of  blessings  on  earth, 

Cherish  in  mem’ry  from  whence  you  descended, 
And  honor  the  soil  that  has  given  you  birth. 
Hark  !  where  your  thunders  hurled, 

Tell  to  a  list’ning  world 
Liberty  dwells  on  America’s  shore. 

Look !  where  your  banners  wave, 

Where  Neptune’s  waters  lave, 

Float  the  striped  buntings,  the  proud  eagles  soar. 

Fill  to  the  brim  !  “  Independence  ”  is  toasted  — 

“  Sons  of  the  patriots  of  ’75.” 

Hail  to  the  day !  it  shall  yearly  be  boasted  ; 

Till  mem’ry  expires  its  honors  shall  thrive. 

Hark  to  the  merry  bells ! 

List,  where  the  echo  tells 
Liberty  triumphs  and  Tyranny  dies. 

Hark  !  where  the  trumpet’s  sound 
Rings  through  creation’s  bound, 

Washington’s  spirit  descends  from  the  skies. 

Father  of  Freedom  !  thy  legacy  given 

Guides  us  in  peace  and  supports  us  in  war. 

Soul  of  the  Great !  from  thy  mansion  in  heaven 
Visit  thy  children  in  Liberty’s  car. 


166 


PATRIOTIC . 


Hark  !  through  the  op’ning  cloud 
Hear  the  voice  thund’ring  loud, 

“Sons,  do  your  duty!  your  country  protect!” 

’Tis  Heaven’s  great  decree 
Freedom  shall  dwell  with  thee 
While  you  your  forefathers’  virtues  respect. 

Now  to  our  Chieftain,  America’s  glory, 

Friend  of  our  country,  our  boast  and  our  pride, 
The  song  of  the  minstrel,  the  bright  page  of  hist’ry, 
Shall  tell  you  have  lived,  and,  for  us,  would  have 
died. 

Loud  let  the  trump  of  Fame 
Send  forth  his  honored  name, 

He  who  ne’er  stooped  to  Columbia’s  foe. 

Green  may  his  laurels  spring 
While  heaven’s  arches  ring 
Wi’  “  God  save  our  Chieftain,  the  patriot  Monroe  !  ’’ 


The  sun  is  rising  o’er  the  sea, 

The  threat’ning  clouds  give  way  ; 
The  drummers  beat  —  the  reveille 
Salutes  the  rising  day. 

The  gallant  seamen  man  the  shrouds, 
And  climb  the  loftiest  spar  ; 


YE  OLDEN  TIME. 


167 


With  three  times  three  they  shake  the  clouds  — 
“  Huzza !  Huzza !  Huzza  !  ” 

The  merry  bells  strike  up  a  glee. 

The  thund’ring  cannons  roar  : 

“Our  fathers  fought  —  and  we  are  free!” 
Re-echoes  round  the  shore. 

The  notes  of  joy  from  every  side 
The  jubilee  proclaim ; 

The  beggar  cocks  his  hat  with  pride, 

And  swells  the  notes  of  fame. 

The  aged  vet’ran,  midst  the  crowd, 

Leans  on  his  hick’ry  cane  : 

Though  low  with  age  his  body ’s  bowed, 
To-day  he’s  young  again. 

The  list’ning  youth  attentive  stand 
To  hear  the  warrior  tell 

How  oft  beneath  his  ’venging  hand 
The  foes  of  freedom  fell. 

He  points  to  where  his  colors  wave  ; 

Delight  illumes  his  eye  : 

“  My  sons,  be  like  your  fathers,  brave  ; 

“  Like  them  be  free,  or  die !  ” 

His  counsel,  like  electric  fire, 

Their  youthful  hearts  inflame  : 

They  press  around  the  patriot  sire, 

With  blessings  on  his  name. 


168 


PATRIOTIC. 


No  sound  is  heard  of  discontent, 

For  all  alike  are  free  ; 

All  give  their  patriot  feelings  vent 
This  day  of  jubilee. 

The  miser  sweats  his  darling  hoard 
To  bid  the  trav’ler  stay, 

And  copious  Plenty  crowns  her  board 
On  this  rejoicing  day. 

No  voice  of  anguish  meets  the  ear, 

To  bid  our  sorrow  flow  ; 

No  suffering  child  of  want  is  here 
To  breathe  the  plaint  of  woe. 

Oh  !  never  may  this  happy  land 
To  hateful  tyrants  yield  ; 

May  Heaven’s  own  thunders  guard  thy  strand, 
Thy  free-born  children  shield. 

July  4,  1814. 


0de  for  i\)e  Wasl?inc)ton 


n. 


(Of  which  the  author  was  a  member.) 


(Tune  —  Scots  wha  hae  wi’  Wallace  bled.) 

Hark  !  again  her  clarion  rings  ! 

Lo  !  she  comes  on  eagle’s  wings  — 
She  who  wealth  and  honor  brings. 
Heaven-born  Liberty. 


ODE  FOR  THE  WASHINGTON  SOCIETY. 


169 


Midst  your  pines  a  home  she  sought ; 
In  her  cause  your  fathers  fought ; 
With  their  blood  her  safety  bought : 
Hail  her  jubilee ! 

Vict’ry  bears  her  starry  crown  ; 
Despots,  trembling,  dread  her  frown  : 
See  !  she  beats  Oppression  down  ; 
Slav’ry  hides  her  head. 

Far  as  earth’s  remotest  bound 
Be  her  sacred  temples  found  ; 

With  her  own  loud  thunders  sound 
Rock  her  cradle-bed. 

Hark  !  the  South  her  voice  obeys  ; 
New-born  sons  her  standard  raise  ; 
May  they  win  her  smiles  and  praise, 
Conquer,  and  be  free  ! 

Where’s  the  Spanish  juggler’s  wand  ? 
Wrested  from  his  palsied  hand  : 

Valor  gave  the  great  command, 

“  On,  to  liberty  !  ” 

’Neath  her  stripes  the  lion  cowers 
’Neath  her  stars  the  crescent  lowers  : 
Hail  the  day  that  made  her  ours  — 
Hail  her  jubilee  ! 

Grateful  sons  of  generous  sires, 

Feed  your  patriotic  fires  ; 

Till  life’s  latest  spark  expires 
Cherish  liberty. 


Written  July  4,  1820. 


170 


PATRIOTIC. 


Pourlf)  of  ^july,  1842, 


Shout,  children,  shout !  the  day’s  your  own, 

Your  gallant  grandsires’  legacy  : 

For  you  midst  blood  and  fire  they  won 
This  jubilee  of  Liberty. 

Wake  every  echo  with  your  glee  ; 

The  patriots’  fire  survives  in  thee. 

Huzza!  behold  your  colors  fly! 

From  ev’ry  tow’ring  mast  they  wave. 

Beneath  that  flag  who  would  not  die, 

Ere  he  would  “live  a  coward  slave”? 

Shout,  young  ones,  shout !  strain  every  voice  ; 
’T is  Independent  Day  —  rejoice! 

Hark  to  the  guns  and  sounding  bells  ! 

Their  brazen  mouths  to  all  proclaim 
Here  Liberty,  your  birthright,  dwells  ; 

Do  honor  to  her  cherished  name. 

Shout,  children,  shout!  the  day’s  your  own, 
God’s  and  your  fathers’  priceless  boon. 


“’Tis  Independent  Day,  mamma  ; 
Why  don’t  they  ring  the  bell  ? 


Why  don’t  they  shout  and  cry,  Huzza  ! 
Dear  mother,  can  you  tell  ? 


INDEPENDENT  DAY. 


171 


I  asked  my  pa’  to  tell  me  why 
The  bells  had  not  been  rung  ; 

With  angry  look  he  passed  me  by, 

And  bade  me  hold  my  tongue, 

And  muttered,  ’twixt  his  grinding  teeth, 

‘  I  blush  to  tell  the  chap, 

The  head  for  which  we  ’twined  the  wreath, 
Deserves  a  motley’s  cap.’ 

“  Last  year  they  hanged  the  colors  out, 

And  rang  the  bells  like  hum, 

And  all  the  people  marched  about, 

And  had  a  fife  and  drum  ; 

And  now  they  all  look  cross,  or  sick  — 

I  wish  somebody ’d  tell  — 

Why  is  it,  mother  —  tell  me  quick, 

Why  don’t  they  ring  the  bell?” 

“Alas!  my  son,  we  have  no  cause 
For  much  rejoicing  now  ; 

Our  traitors  have  made  wicked  laws, 

To  which  we  all  must  bow. 

“Old  Massachusetts  feels  the  stroke, 

Her  hills  and  valleys  groan  ; 

She  cannot  bear  a  Tyrant’s  yoke, 

And  bow  submissive  down. 

A  voice  is  heard  along  her  strand, 

And  echoed  o’er  the  waves, — 

‘  Cursed  be  the  fiend  who  doomed  this  land 
A  trap  for  hunted  slaves  !  ’ 

Yet  Fillmore  wolves  and  Douglass  hounds 
Have  made  it  slavery’s  hunting  grounds. 


172 


PATRIOTIC. 


“Why  weeps  my  boy  —  why  don’t  he  play?” 
“  Oh,  mother,  need  I  tell  ? 

They’ve  murdered  Independent  Day! 

We  ought  to  toll  the  bell.” 

July  4,  1854. 


(Tune  —  Auld  Lang  Syne.) 


Two  hundred  fifty  years  ago 
The  savage  walked  this  strand, 

Armed  with  his  arrow  and  his  bow, 
The  monarch  of  this  land. 

And  here  his  light  canoe  he  plied 
Across  the  rolling  waves  : 

Monatiquot,  thy  waters  glide 
’Round  the  poor  Indians’  graves. 

Our  fathers  came  ;  the  savage  fled 
To  forests  far  away  : 

On  either  side  brave  blood  was  shed, 

In  desperate  affray. 

Where’er  the  white  man  plants  his  foot 
The  savage  must  retire, 

And  make  his  dwelling  with  the  brute, 
Around  his  camping-fire. 


INDEPENDENT  DAY. 


173 


Our  fathers,  freed  from  barbarous  foes, 

The  church  and  schoolhouse  raise ; 

And  up  to  heaven,  re-echoing,  rose 
Thanksgiving  songs  of  praise. 

The  fire  of  freedom  brightly  glowed 
In  every  patriot  breast ; 

And,  like  the  electric  current,  flowed 
North,  east,  and  south,  and  west, 

When,  O  Britiannia, —  shame  to  thee  !  — 
Who  Freedom’s  charter  gave, 

Assumed  to  subjugate  the  free, 

And  her  own  blood  t’  enslave. 

But  Hampden’s  blood  was  in  their  veins, 
Who  would  not  bow  the  knee  : 

Our  fathers  spurned  the  tyrant’s  chains ; 
They  fought  —  and  we  are  free. 

We  ’ll  not  forget  old  Bunker  Hill, 
Concord,  or  Lexington, 

But  keep  them  fresh  in  mem’ry  still, 

Till  Time  his  course  has  run. 

Our  cheers  for  Independence  here 
On  lightning  tongues  will  bound 

Wide  o’er  the  waves,  our  sons  to  cheer, 
The  spacious  world  around. 

“  Hail,  Independence,  evermore,” 

Our  dying  patriots  cry, 

“  Where  floats  our  flag  from  shore  to  shore, 
Forever  and  for  aye !  ” 


174 


PATRIOTIC. 


©Id  Bncjland. 


Old  England,  the  land  whence  our  forefathers  came, — 
Though  sometimes  we  wrangle,  as  relatives  will,  — 

In  blood  and  in  language  forever  the  same, 

Deep,  deep  in  our  hearts  there  is  love  for  thee  still. 

Your  poets  and  patriots,  your  good  men  and  wise, 

We  honor,  and  partially  claim  for  our  own  ; 

Your  statesmen  and  heroes  we  know  how  to  prize, 
Rememb’ring  with  pride  that  our  fathers  were  one. 

From  the  land  of  the  free,  by  our  grandsires  crowned, 
We  greet  thee,  our  clime,  as  the  noble  and  brave, 

The  nation  for  Freedom’s  great  charter  renowned, 
Which  suffers  no  tyrant,  and  owns  not  a  slave. 

Though  ocean  divides  us  may  naught  else  divide  ; 

In  friendship  and  peace  may  we  ever  remain, 

By  kinship,  by  justice,  and  honor  allied, 

Leagued  ever  the  rights  of  mankind  to  sustain. 


er  an 


d 


All  hail  our  Pilgrim  fathers’  strand, 
The  dearest  spot  on  earth  ! 

And  hail  Britannia  —  hail  the  land 
That  gave  our  fathers  birth ! 


OUR  FATHERS'  LEGACY. 


Britain,  the  fount  from  whence  we  rose, 
Her  blood  our  veins  that  fill, 

Although  our  fathers  met  as  foes, 

Their  sons  are  brethren  still. 

Then  weave  her  banner  with  our  own, 
And  to  the  mast-head  nail ; 

Freedom  shall  wear  her  double  crown  — 
Mother  and  daughter,  hail! 


e^ac 


/• 


Our  fathers  crossed  the  Atlantic  waves, 
And  sought  the  rock  where  ocean  laves. 
For  freedom  or  for  freemen’s  graves  — 
The  rock  of  the  Old  Colony. 

The  eagle  from  her  pine-top  nest, 

Whose  shadow  kissed  the  ocean’s  breast, 
Exulting,  eyed  each  venturous  guest, 
And  showed  them  to  her  progeny. 

Fair  Liberty  beheld  the  sign  : 

“  My  bird,”  she  cried,  “can  sure  divine  — 
These  eagle-hearted  souls  are  mine, 

The  daring  sons  of  Liberty. 

Behold  this  Pilgrim  band  forlorn, 

The  mitre-cursed,  the  tyrant-scorned, 
With  sickness,  toil,  and  famine  worn, 
These  children  of  a  Deity.” 


176 


PATRIOTIC. 


Along  the  shore  the  wild  winds  howled  ; 

Around  their  camp  the  savage  prowled  ; 

The  gloomy  heavens  above  them  scowled  — 
A  starless,  death-pall  canopy. 

The  Pilgrim  breathed  no  murmuring  sigh  ; 

In  faith  he  fixed  his  hopes  on  high, 

And  vowed  to  conquer  or  to  die, 

For  freedom  and  posterity. 

And  soon  the  Pilgrims’  souls  were  tried  ; 

With  famine  many  a  stout  heart  died  ; 

Yet  e’en  in  death  they  dared  confide 
In  God,  who  giveth  victory. 

Before  that  brave,  surviving  band 

The  conquered  savage  fled  the  land  ; 

Returning  sunbeams  warmed  the  sand, 

And  hope  became  reality. 

Before  their  strokes  the  forest  reeled  ; 

The  secret  earth  her  stores  revealed  ; 

And  Freedom  crowned  that  barren  field, 

The  altar  of  America. 

Descendants  of  the  pious  few 

Who  suffered,  toiled,  and  bled  for  you, 

Think  what  you  owe  that  gallant  crew, 
Those  pioneers  of  Liberty. 

The  sons  have  ne’er  their  sires  disgraced  ; 

Through  them  the  Pilgrim’s  blood  is  traced  ; 

Their  fathers’  foe  they  boldly  faced, 

And  Heaven  awarded  victory. 


OUR  FATHERS. 


177 


They  beat  the  British  lion  down, 

And  tore  the  jewels  from  his  crown. 

Hail,  Independence!  ’t  is  our  own, 

Our  gallant  fathers’  legacy. 

To  Independence  strike  the  lyre ; 

We  ’ll  hail  it  till  the  world ’s  on  fire, 

And  bless  the  son  and  bless  the  sire 
Who  honors  Freedom’s  jubilee. 

God  bless  their  hearts  and  move  their  hands 
Who,  in  our  own,  or  foreign  lands 
Are  breaking  down  Oppression’s  bands, 

The  accursed  bands  of  slavery. 


May  7,  1847. 


(Tune  —  The  White  Cockade.) 


Our  fathers  were  a  noble  race 

Of  honest  working-men,  d’ye  see; 

And  here  they  came  to  find  a  place, 

A  dwelling  for  the  brave  and  free. 

They  crossed  the  sea  for  Freedom’s  soil, 
And  made  it  thrive  by  freemen’s  toil ; 
The  freeman’s  home  they  bled  to  save, 
And  cursed  be  he  who  would  enslave ! 


178 


PATRIOTIC. 


Our  fathers  fought  against  the  crown  — 
They  would  not  bear  a  tyrant’s  yoke  ; 

And  when  in  death  they  laid  them  down 
A  spirit  from  their  ashes  spoke : 

We  crossed  the  sea  for  Freedom’s  soil, 
And  made  it  thrive  by  freemen’s  toil ; 
The  freeman’s  home  we  bled  to  save, 
And  cursed  be  he  who  would  enslave ! 

Our  fathers,  for  their  legacy, 

Have  left  to  us  the  guardian  care 

Of  this,  the  dwelling  of  the  free, 

For  which  they  laid  their  bosoms  bare. 
They  crossed  the  sea  for  Freedom’s  soil, 
And  made  it  thrive  by  freemen’s  toil ; 
The  freeman’s  home  they  bled  to  save, 
And  cursed  be  he  who  would  enslave  ! 

Dishonor  to  the  traitor’s  grave 
Who  clips  the  wings  of  Liberty. 

His,  Arnold’s  fame  who  would  enslave 
The  land  our  fathers  died  to  free. 

They  cros9-ed  the  sea  for  Freedom’s  soil, 
And  made  it  thrive  by  freemen’s  toil ; 
The  freeman’s  home  they  bled  to  save, 
And  cursed  be  he  who  would  enslave ! 


FLAG  SONG  OF  TRIUMPH. 


179 


(Tune  — The  Legacy.) 


Aloft  Columbia’s  flag  is  flying  ; 

Around  it  rally  brave  boys  in  blue  ; 

And  should  a  foe,  that  flag  defying, 

Approach,  your  country  will  trust  to  you. 

Well  it  is  known  our  patriots  never 

Dishonor  the  flag  of  the  brave  and  free  ; 
Borne  aloft,  it  shall  float  forever 
Triumphant  over  the  land  and  sea. 

The  stripes  and  stars  are  the  freeman’s  banner  ; 

It  waves  a  blessing  to  all  mankind. 

That  flag  the  nations  delight  to  honor, 

And  welcome  over  the  world ’t  will  find. 

On  the  hilltop,  and  down  in  the  valley. 

And  over  the  lakes,  and  over  the  sea, 

The  boys  in  blue  to  the  bugle  rally 
Around  the  flag  of  the  brave  and  free. 

The  wronged  from  every  clime  and  nation 
Are  swarming  over  the  stormy  brine, 

And  joyful  seal  to  the  obligation 

To  guard  and  honor  our  holy  shrine. 


180 


PATRIOTIC. 


Wave  it  aloft,  our  country’s  banner  ; 

Salute  it  with  cheers  from  shore  to  shore: 
The  sign  of  justice,  of  faith,  and  honor 
Shall  wave  in  triumph  till  time ’s  no  more. 


October,  1868. 


All  hail  the  land  that  Freedom  cheers, 
The  land  of  equal  rights, 

Where  Justice  rules,  and  Plenty  rears 
Her  garden  of  delights. 

The  land  where  noble  Warren  bled, 
The  land  of  Washington  ; 

Where  lie  the  ever-honored  dead 
Who  Freedom’s  battle  won. 

All  hail  the  land  that  would  not  bend 
Beneath  Oppression’s  stroke, 

But  bravely  dared  their  rights  defend, 
And  spurned  the  tyrants’  yoke. 

Brave,  ransomed  land  !  forever  more 
To  bear  the  starry  sign 

That  ever  more,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Sweet  Liberty  is  thine. 


MY  NATIVE  LAND. 


181 


In  vain  would  tyrants  fix  their  throne 
Where  dwell  the  just  and  brave  ; 

One  blast  upon  their  bugle  blown 
Shall  rouse  a  world  to  save. 

Freedom  has  fixed  her  altar  here, 

And,  ’neath  its  mighty  dome, 

With  shouts  of  joy  and  songs  of  cheer, 
Her  ransomed  children  come. 

Hosanna  to  the  Mighty  One 
Who  gave  the  great  decree, 
“Columbia,  land  of  Washington, 
Forever  more  be  free”  — 

The  land  where  tyrants  vainly  strove 
To  rule  with  iron  rod, 

Forgetful  that  there  dwells  above 
A  just  and  righteous  God. 


My  native  land,  forever  dear ! 

Though  mine  has  been  the  poor  man’s  lot 
I  love  thee  still,  with  heart  sincere, 

Nor  are  thy  benefits  forgot. 


182 


PATRIOTIC. 


I  share  the  glory  of  thy  name, 

The  shelter  of  thy  mighty  shield ; 

And  I  with  thee  must  bear  the  shame 
If  thou  to  vice  or  folly  yield. 

I  feel  that  I  am  one  of  those 

Who  form  a  nation  great  and  strong  ; 

Engaged  to  battle  with  her  foes, 

To  guard  the  right  and  check  the  wrong. 

A  grain  amongst  her  sands  to  roll, 

A  drop  amidst  her  oceans  whirled, 

I  form  a  part  of  that  great  whole  — 

A  refuge  for  the  suffering  world. 

Co-heir  of  all  her  praise  or  blame, 

Her  manly  sons  who  cross  the  sea 

And  win  a  justly  honored  name, 

Confer  a  benefit  on  me. 

If  there  may  be  excuse  for  pride, 

I  am  a  patriot  soldier’s  son, 

And,  by  my  country’s  birth,  allied 
To  thee,  immortal  Washington. 

My  native  land,  forever  dear, 

While  o’er  my  head  your  colors  wave, 

I  scarce  can  realize  that  here 
There  breathes  a  tyrant  or  a  slave. 

Ah  !  would  those  wrongs  our  hearts  deplore 
Were  blotted  out,  no  more  to  be  ; 


MY  COUNTRY. 


183 


That  all  who  tread  Columbia’s  shore 
Enjoyed  the  blessings  of  the  free. 

Then  would  her  stars  a  light  disclose 
To  gazing  nations  ’round  the  world  ; 
Her  stripes  a  terror  to  her  foes 

Where’er  her  sons  their  flag  unfurled. 


My  country  !  from  my  early  youth 
I  have  been  taught  to  love  thy  name, 

And  I  have  learned  thy  sterling  worth, 

And  gloried  in  thy  noble  fame. 

Their  names  who  on  the  battle-ground 
Or  in  the  Senate  served  thee  true, 

By  mem’ry  to  my  heart-strings  bound, 
Preserve  the  record  ever  new. 

And  now,  when  at  thy  trumpet’s  call 
Fpr  sons  to  serve  thee  in  the  field, 

While  Northern  traitors  from  thee  fall, 

Who  should  have  been  thy  stay  and  shield, 

Though  age  and  feebleness  be  mine, 

At  home  I  scarce  can  patient  bide  ; 

My  little  strength  I  would  were  thine, 

To  aid  thee  in  the  battle-tide  — 


184 


PATRIOTIC. 


To  follow  where  thy  banner  leads, 

To  roll  the  car  of  vict’ry  on, 

And  help  to  do  as  noble  deeds 
As  others  in  thy  cause  have  done, 

The  willing  heart  indeed  would  go, 

The  quickened,  kindling  blood  will  warm  ; 

But  vainly  ’gainst  the  vaunting  foe 
Unconscious  lifts  the  feeble  arm. 

My  sons  —  may  Heaven  my  children  save  — 
Are  with  thee  battling  ’gainst  the  foe  : 

One  lies  within  a  soldier’s  grave, 

And  fate  may  lay  my  others  low ; 

But  rather  than  to  traitors  yield 
This  glorious  land  of  liberty, 

My  all  that’s  mine  will  bide  the  field, 

And  with  our  country  live  or  die. 

A  Nation’s  tears  bedew  the  grave 

Of  those  who  scorned  her  rights  to  sell  — 

Who,  struggling  manfully  to  save, 

Like  Warren  and  like  Lyon,  fell. 

A  glorious  future  must  await 

Those  who  survive  this  fearful  strife  — 

Men  who  restored  the  periled  State 
From  threatened  death  to  healthy  life. 

Their  country’s  gratitude  and  praise, 

Their  own  self-consciousness  of  right, 


MY  COUNTRY. 


185 


A  Nation’s  blessing  all  their  days, 

The  patriot  soldier  shall  requite. 

God  pardon  those  misguided  ones 
Who  basely  choose  a  traitor’s  fame : 

Their  blood  through  ages,  while  it  runs, 

Will  bear  the  Arnold  mark  of  shame. 

Time  will  not  make  the  record  fade, 

Nor  wash  away  the  foul  disgrace : 

Scorn’s  finger  ever  will  upbraid 
The  guilty  traitor’s  hapless  race. 

Oh  !  who  their  offspring  would  consign 
To  such  a  hope-destroying  state  — 

To  have  no  country,  know  no  shrine  — 
Doomed  lepers,  marked  for  scorn  or  hate  ! 

Are  you  a  parent  ?  Ponder  well ; 

Nor  let  your  children  curse  the  day 

Their  father,  leagued  with  traitors,  fell, 

To  throw  their  birthrights  all  away, 

And  left  them  orphans  on  that  shore 
That  mothers  all  of  patriot  race  — 

To  them  a  parent  now  no  more, 

Memorials  of  her  sad  disgrace! 


Aug.  22,  1863. 


186 


PATRIOTIC. 


h 


mon. 


I  love  our  Union,  love  each  State, 

The  new  as  well  as  old  ; 

Nor  would  I  see  them  separate 
For  all  their  weight  in  gold. 

But  rather  than  I  would  resign 
The  birthright  of  the  free, 

Had  I  the  power,  I  ’d  draw  a  line 
Of  fire,  from  sea  to  sea, 

And  say  to  those  who  slav’ry  love, 

“  Now  try  your  servile  plan  ; 

Let  those  who  liberty  approve 
Enjoy  the  rights  of  man  !  ” 

And  he  who  treads  your  sacred  shore, 

That  moment  shall  be  free  ; 

The  accursed  slave-hunter  no  more 
Shall  outrage  Liberty. 

But  would  a  line  of  fire  suffice 
The  bondmen  to  restrain  ? 

No ;  in  their  strength  the  slaves  would  rise, 
And  pass  the  fiery  chain. 

Nor  would  the  angry  despot  dare 
Pursue  his  flying  slave  : 

Their  pass  to  him  would  prove  a  snare  — 
The  passport  to  his  grave. 


MY  COUNTRY. 


187 


Away,  then,  with  that  tricksy  whine 
The  Union  band  to  save, 

When  Freedom  says,  “  The  stars  are  mine  ; 
The  stripes  no  more  shall  wave !  ” 

Full  well  do  all  slaveholders  know 
They  lean  on  Freedom’s  shield, 

And  if  she  meets  them  as  a  foe, 

That  slav’ry’s  fate  is  sealed. 

Whene’er  she  rends  her  Union  flag, 

And  casts  the  stripes  away, 

Alas  !  for  all  the  Southrons’  brag 
They’ll  deeply  rue  the  day. 


(  i 


The  strain  the  patriot  poet  sung, 

That  sounded  ’round  his  fairy  lakes, 
And  o’er  the  misty  hilltops  rung, 

On  distant  shores  the  echo  wakes ; 

“  With  all  thy  faults  I  love  thee  still, 
Dear  Scotia,  oh  !  my  native  land  !  ” 
For  weal  or  woe,  for  good  or  ill, 

He  gave  his  heart  and  gave  his  hand. 


188 


PATRIOTIC. 


He  loved  her  still,  despite  her  crimes, 

And  with  a  childlike  love  caressed  ; 

’Though  sorrow  mantled  o’er  his  rhymes, 

He  would  not  foul  the  parent  nest. 

He  could  not  tear  his  heart  away, 

And  curse  the  land  that  gave  him  birth, 

Or  act  the  traitor,  and  betray 

The  patriot’s  dearest  spot  on  earth. 

This  is  that  true  and  constant  love 
By  every  honest  patriot  shown  — 

The  spirit  that  would  faithful  prove 

Though  all  the  world  beside  should  frown. 

But  every  nation  sins  at  times : 

What  then,  should  patriot  hearts  oppose  ? 

Rebuke  and  lash  them  for  their  crimes, 

Not  give  the  scourge  to  heartless  foes. 

Those  words,  “  Our  country,  wrong  or  right,” 
Re-echoed  now  from  every  hill. 

If  viewed  but  in  a  candid  light, 

They  but  express,  “  I  love  thee  still.” 

I  love  thee  still,  my  native  land, 

With  all  thy  faults,  though  great  they  be ; 

Nor  would  I,  with  thy  foemen,  band 
To  bow  thy  neck  or  bend  thy  knee. 

’T  is  nature’s  universal  truth, 

We  love  our  own,  how’er  defiled. 


AMERICA. 


189 


Would’st  prove  it  ?  Seize  that  guilty  youth  ; 
Strike  down  that  mother’s  erring  child. 

Would  not  the  Amazonian  light 

Flash  from  the  mildest  mother’s  eye  ? 
Would  she  not  guard  him,  wrong  or  right, 
And  every  means  to  save  him  try  ? 

The  patriot,  in  as  dear  a  light, 

Beholds  his  country,  good  or  ill. 

She  is  his  mother,  wrong  or  right ; 

He  loves,  supports,  and  guards  her  still. 

April  io,  1847. 


0merica. 


America’s  a  wretched  place, 

Some  folks  pretend  to  say  ; 

If  so,  I  wonder  why  such  swarms 
Are  flocking  on  this  way  ! 

I  wonder  why  they  didn’t  think 
’T  was  best  at  home  to  stay. 

I ’m  thinking  that,  with  all  its  faults, — 
And  it  has  some,  I  know, — 

A  better  place  to  find  a  friend, 

Or  shelter  from  a  foe, 

With  all  their  ingenuity 
They  can’t  begin  to  show. 


190 


PATRIOTIC. 


A  better  place  to  earn  their  bread, 

If  but  a  mind  to  try, 

To  educate  their  little  ones, 

And  lay  the  shiners  by, 

They  have  n’t  found,  and  can’t  begin 
To  find  beneath  the  sky. 

Yet  some  will  take  the  liberty 
Their  freedom  to  misuse  — 

The  hand  that  feeds  and  shelters  them 
To  heartlessly  abuse  ; 

For  which  they  in  fnost  foreign  lands 
Perchance  their  ears  might  lose. 

I  love  to  see  the  foreigner 
Seek  comfort  on  our  shore  ; 

To  enter,  as  they  freely  do, 

Our  ever-open  door  : 

I  love  to  know  my  native  land’s 
A  shelter  for  the  poor  ; 

But  base  ingratitude  I  hate, 

And  scorn  the  viper  knave 

Who  strikes  his  venom  to  the  hand 
Outstretched  from  harm  to  save  : 

The  ungrateful  guest  on  Freedom’s  shore 
Is  still  to  vice  a  slave. 


"JOHN  BULL  AND  UNCLE  SAM. 


191 


y 

(2 


ohn 


Bull  and  Id 


ncle 


)am, 


(Written  to  please  my  little  boys.) 

John  Bull  with  Uncle  Sam  fell  out, 

And  stumped  him  out  to  fight,  sir. 

Says  John,  “  We  ’ll  have  a  lusty  bout, 

To  set  the  matter  right,  sir !” 

Cho. —  Take  it,  Johnny,  fair  or  rough  — 

You ’ve  long  deserved  a  beating  ; 

And  though  you  seldom  cry  enough, 
We  know  it  by  your  bleating. 

Now  off  went  coats  and  down  went  stakes, 
And  both  began  to  square,  sir  ; 

And  each  his  best  advantage  takes 
To  pull  the  other’s  hair,  sir. 

Now  John  was  clumsy,  fat,  and  big, 

So  Uncle  Sam  got  hold,  sir, 

And  dusted  well  his  royal  wig, 

When  John  began  to  scold,  sir. 

He  said  he  knew  it  wasn’t  fair  — 

Called  Uncle  Sam  a  clown,  sir  ; 

And  said  he  did  n’t  think  he ’d  dare 
To  shake  his  daddy’s  crown,  sir. 


192 


PATRIOTIC. 


But  Uncle  Sam  kept  thumping  still, 
And  plumped  him  hip  and  thigh,  sir ; 

’Till  John,  though  much  against  his  will, 
For  quarter  had  to  cry,  sir. 

He  begged  he  would  some  pity  take, 
And  offered,  too,  to  treat,  sir ; 

Resigned  his  honor  and  his  stake, 

And  owned  that  he  was  beat,  sir. 

Now  Uncle  Sam,  though  loth  to  quit, 

At  length  gave  up  the  fray,  sir, 

And  giving  John  a  parting  hit,* 
Exulting  marched  away,  sir. 

Now,  John,  when  next  you  want  to  box, 
Do  n’t  box  with  Uncle  Sam,  sir  ; 

For,  faith,  you’ll  find  his  sturdy  knocks 
Are  something  more  than  sham,  sir. 

Now  here ’s  a  health  to  Uncle  Sam  — 
Old  Hickory,  too,  d’  ye  see,  sir, 

Who  tripped  the  heels  of  Packingham, 
And  packed  him  off  to  sea,  sir. 


*  At  New  Orleans. 


IMPRESSMENT  OF  AMERICAN  SEAMEN. 


193 


0n  f\)e  impressment  of 


I  merican 


)eamen. 


Columbia’s  tars,  a  gallant  crew, 

And  worthy  of  their  country’s  care, 

With  fearless  hearts  their  course  pursue 
Where  tempests  roar  and  lightnings  glare. 

Their  country’s  colors  to  display, 

And  load  her  ports  with  wealth,  they  sail ; 
Intrepid  plough  the  trackless  way, 

And  o’er  the  ocean  storms  prevail. 

But  lo !  what  can  their  hearts  appall  ? 

Why  shrink  they  back  with  timid  fear  ? 
Hark  !  hark  !  they  hear  their  messmates  call, 
“  A  British  cruiser ’s  bearing  near!  ” 

Now  to  escape  pursuit  they  strive, 

And  force  their  laden  bark  along  — 

With  every  sail  the  vessel  drive, 

Their  much-loved  freedom  to  prolong. 

But  all  their  efforts  naught  avail ; 

The  light-winged  pirate  on  them  gains  ; 
The  whizzing  balls  their  masts  assail ; 

Their  deck  with  crimson  gore  distains. 

The  hapless  crew  in  terror  hide  ; 

Their  rapid  course  the  pirates  stay  ; 

The  hostile  boats  approach  the  side, 

To  bear  our  free-born  sons  away. 


194 


PATRIOTIC. 


The  refuse  of  his  native  land, 

The  minion  of  a  tyrant  vile, 

Drags  forth  the  persecuted  band, 

And  marks  his  base  employer’s  spoil. 

The  wretched  youth,  with  terror  pale, 
Presents  the  pass  his  country  gave ; 

But  justice  now  can  naught  avail  — 

They  throw  his  passport  to  the  wave. 

On  board  the  floating  dungeon  borne, 

The  lash  the  cruel  tyrants  ply  ; 

From  freedom,  friends,  and  country,  torn, 
With  bloodhounds  doomed  to  live  and  die. 

In  vain  he  supplicates  release  ; 

Cold  avarice  locks  his  galling  chains  ; 

And  to  the  dastard  cry  of  Peace, 

He  owes  his  agonizing  pains.* 

(Written  in  1811.) 


(Tune  —  Methodist  Hymn.) 


Awake,  arise,  Columbia’s  sons  ! 

Gird  on  your  sword,  and  grasp  your  guns, 


*  The  author  had  a  brother  impressed  and  detained  several  years  on  board 
a  British  frigate. 


SAILOR'S  RIGHTS. 


195 


To  shield  your  country  fly  ! 

To  shield  your  country  fly  ! 

Those  rights  your  fathers  bought,  maintain, 
Midst  seas  of  blood  and  heaps  of  slain  — 
Live  free  or  nobly  die  ! 

Live  free  or  nobly  die  ! 

Our  cause  is  just  —  ’t  is  Freedom’s  cause  ; 
For  sailor’s  rights  and  nation’s  laws 
We  light  the  torch  of  war, 

We  light  the  torch  of  war. 

Our  motto  this,  With  honor,  peace, 

Or  war  till  wars  on  earth  shall  cease, 

Till  time  shall  be  no  more, 

Till  time  shall  be  no  more. 

Nailed  to  the  mast  our  colors  wave, 

To  lower  but  o’er  our  nation’s  grave, 

On  Freedom’s  funeral  pyre, 

On  Freedom’s  funeral  pyre. 

The  foe  shall  cease  our  sons  to  harm, 

Or  ocean  with  our  fleets  shall  swarm 
To  wrap  their  coasts  in  fire, 

To  wrap  their  coasts  in  fire. 

We  swear  to  save  our  native  land 
Or  perish,  like  the  Spartan  band, 
Contending  to  be  free, 

Contending  to  be  free. 

Secure,  our  stripes  and  stars  shall  spread, 
Or,  bathed  in  blood,  the  Britains  dread, 
Triumphant  ride  the  sea, 

Triumphant  ride  the  sea. 


196 


PATRIOTIC. 


(Tune  —  Auld  Lang  Syne.) 

The  tyrant  of  the  raging  main 
Again  your  country  braves, 

And  o’er  the  ocean  casts  his  chain 
To  make  your  children  slaves. 

Then  rush  to  guard  your  native  shores, 
Your  rights  upon  the  sea  ; 

In  thunder  plead  your  righteous  cause, 
And  conquer,  to  be  free. 

Around  your  country’s  standard  throng ! 
To  arms,  ye  patriots,  fly! 

Resolved  your  freedom  to  prolong, 

To  conquer,  or  to  die. 

Your  sons  in  foreign  dungeons  bound 
Invoke  your  aid  to  save  ; 

Then  let  your  thundering  cannon’s  sound 
Speak  freedom  to  the  slave. 

With  patriot  armies  line  your  strand, 
Your  country’s  foes  defy; 

Unite,  and,  like  the  Spartan  band, 

Live  free,  or  nobly  die. 

Your  hardy  sons  the  ocean  brave, 

In  vengeance  take  the  field  ; 

Columbia  yet  shall  rule  the  wave, 

And  haughty  Britain  yield. 


1812. 


CONGRA  TULA  TOR  Y. 


197 


onqra 


tulator 


f 


(On  the  Visit  of  President  Monroe  to  Boston.) 

Aloft  Columbia’s  banner  waves, 

And  loud  her  thunders  roar : 

That  banner  awes  all  foreign  slaves, 

Those  thunders  guard  our  shore. 

Why  floats  our  starry  flag  on  high  ? 
Why  roll  our  thunders  ’round  the  sky  ? 

Our  Chief,  Columbia’s  Chief,  is  near  — 
Columbia’s  friend,  the  patriot  tried  ; 

To  every  virtuous  bosom  dear  — 

Our  own,  our  much-loved  country’s  pride. 
Lift  up  our  starry  flag  on  high, 

And  roll  our  thunders  ’round  the  sky ! 

Strike  up,  strike  up  the  merry  bells, 

Swell  the  high  notes  of  festive  glee, 

While  Freedom’s  loudest  clarion  tells 
To  listening  worlds,  Columbia’s  free ! 

Lift  up  our  starry  flag  on  high, 

And  roll  our  thunders  ’round  the  sky ! 

Behold  our  Chief,  a  nation’s  choice ; 

His  worth  e’en  party  rancour  calms  : 

His  mandate  is  Columbia’s  voice, 

His  guard,  the  western  world  of  arms. 

Lift  up  our  starry  flag  on  high, 

And  roll  our  thunders  ’round  the  sky  ! 


198 


PATRIOTIC. 


New  England,  nurse  of  Liberty, 

That  with  thy  blood  that  goddess  fed  — 

That  shrunk  not  when  her  foes  were  nigh, 

But  rushed  to  guard  her  cradle-bed  — 

Lift  up  your  starry  flag  on  high, 

And  roll  your  thunders  ’round  the  sky! 

Bostonia,  bid  thy  trumpet  sound, 

Thy  gallant  martial  strength  display ; 

Let  the  loud  welcome,  pealing  ’round, 

Salute  your  Chieftain  on  his  way. 

Lift  up  your  starry  flag  on  high, 

And  roll  your  thunders  ’round  the  sky ! 

He  comes  !  he  comes  !  your  Chief  is  here  — 
Columbia’s  sword,  Columbia’s  shield  ; 

Give  him  the  long,  loud,  heartfelt  cheer 
Who  with  his  blood  your  freedom  sealed. 
Lift  up  your  starry  flag  on  high, 

And  roll  your  thunders  through  the  sky  ! 


onsu 


e, 


On  his  Release  from  a  Spanish  Dungeon. 


When  our  citizen  Meade  had  a  prisoner  lain 
Lor  two  years  and  more  in  the  dungeons  of  Spain, 
The  patriot  Monroe  took  the  first  chair  of  state, 
And  resolved  to  have  justice  done,  however  late. 


CONSUL  MEADE. 


199 


He  called  to  our  Eagle ;  she  heard  from  afar, 

And  came  with  her  emblems  of  peace  and  of  war. 
“Throw  the  olive  aside,”  says  Columbia’s  Chief; 

“  The  war  dart  will  serve,  for  your  message  is  brief. 

I ’ve  heard  o’er  the  ocean,  the  rivers,  and  plain, 

A  son  of  Columbia  in  fetters  complain. 

Go  tell  the  proud  Spaniard  across  the  wide  waves, 

The  sons  of  Columbia  will  never  be  slaves. 

Go  tell  the  proud  monarch  his  prey  to  resign  ; 

Columbia  demands  it,  and  vengeance  is  mine  !  ” 

Like  lightning  she  flies  o’er  the  loud-sounding  main, 
And  hears  the  poor  captive  in  fetters  complain. 

She  seeks  the  proud  monarch  ;  she  shows  the  red  dart : 
His  knees  shake  with  terror,  and  sunk  is  his  heart. 

She  tells  him  her  message,  oft  told  him  in  vain  : 

“  I  come  here  for  justice,  proud  monarch  of  Spain. 
Columbia  demands  that  her  sons  shall  be  free, 

Or  the  blood  of  your  subjects  shall  crimson  the  sea!  ’’ 
He  shrinks  from  the  glance  of  her  soul-piercing  eye, 
And  vainly  attempts  from  her  talons  to  fly. 

He  bends  with  reluctance  the  long-stiffened  knee: 

The  fetters  are  broke,  and  the  prisoner  is  free. 

Victoria,  Columbia,  no  prison  on  earth 

Shall  stay  thy  free  sons  from  the  land  of  their  birth. 


200 


PATRIOTIC. 


Written  for  and  sung  at  the  Anniversary  of  the  Worcester  Light  Infantry. 
(Tune  —  Scots  wha  hae.) 

When  the  British  tyrant  bore 
O’er  our  land  the  sovereign  power, 

By  their  hopes  our  fathers  swore 
Free  to  live  or  die. 

Every  patriot  arm  was  bared  : 

When  the  union  flag  was  reared, 

Every  heart  by  freedom  cheered 
Beat  for  liberty. 

Soon  the  trial-day  came  on, 

When  each  brave  American 
Sought  the  camp  of  Washington, 

Pointing  to  their  graves  : 

Hungry  on  the  field  of  toil, 

Barefoot  on  the  frozen  soil, 

Bravely  suff ’ring  pain  and  spoil, 

Scorning  to  be  slaves. 

Shall  the  sons  disgrace  their  sires  ? 

No,  by  the  eternal  fires  ! 

He  who  Freedom’s  course  inspires 
Bears  the  triple  shield. 


THE  CITIZEN  SOLDIER . 


201 


By  the  martyr  Warren’s  shade, 

By  our  country’s  battle-blade, 

By  the  vow  our  fathers  made, 

We  will  never  yield  ! 

Should  we  hear  our  country’s  call, 
’Though  this  flag  should  be  our  pall, 
We  will  rally,  one  and  all, 

Where  our  fathers  trod. 

Like  them,  on  the  battle-ground, 
When  the  ’larum  trump  shall  sound, 
On  the  post  of  honor  found, 
Trusting  in  their  God. 


Sung  by  Mr.  Canterbury,  at  a  dinner  given  by  Gilman  Collamore,  Esq.,  to  the 
independent  company  called  the  Boston  Fusileers  (of  which  he  was  for¬ 
merly  a  Lieutenant),  on  the  occasion  of  presenting  them  with  a  new 
standard,  painted  by  Curtis,  on  which  were  the  arms  of  Massachusetts  — 
an  Indian  with  a  bow  and  arrow.  Present,  Gen.  Wells  and  other  invited 
guests. 

(Tune  —  Wreaths  to  the  Chieftain.) 

Guardians  of  Freedom,  of  Justice,  and  Virtue, 

Citizen  soldiers  of  Liberty’s  soil, 

Victory’s  pledge  a  Columbian  presents  you  ; 

Guard  it  from  insult  and  shield  it  from  spoil. 


202 


PATRIOTIC. 


Should  the  shrill  battle-cry 
Ring  through  your  native  sky, 

Then  to  this  standard,  undaunted,  repair, 

Where  every  shot  must  tell : 

Let  the  foe  mark  it  well ; 

Bid  him  behold  it  —  behold  and  despair! 

Hail,  Massachusetts  !  America’s  favorite  ; 

Long  may  the  blessing  remain  on  your  head. 

Cursed  be  the  wretch  that  would  plunder  thy  birthright, 
And  famished  the  knave  who  would  sell  it  for  bread. 
Strong  be  your  warrior’s  bow  — 

Ne’er  may  he  miss  your  foe  ; 

Sure  winged  his  dart  as  the  arrows  of  fate. 

Cheered  be  your  patriot  hearts, 

Cherished  your  liberal  arts, 

Pillars  and  wreaths  in  the  Temple  of  State. 

Liberty,  long  ere  your  brave  fathers  wooed  her, 

Roamed  a  poor  wanderer,  oppressed  by  despair. 
Washington  sought,  and  successful  pursued  her  — 

On  you  he  bestowed  her ;  protect  her  with  care. 

Ne’er  be  her  blooming  charms 
Clasped  in  a  traitor’s  arms  ; 

Long  may  she  bless  our  American  shore. 

’Till  she  departs  the  world, 

Still  be  this  flag  unfurled  ; 

When  she  expires  may  time  be  no  more. 

Strong  be  the  links  in  the  chain  of  the  Union ; 

Ne’er  may  we  Washington’s  precepts  forsake: 
ong  may  we  live  in  this  blessed  communion, 

And  scorned  be  the  slave  who  the  compact  would  break. 


THE  OLD  SOLDIER'S  PETLTION. 


203 


Now  to  the  Commonwealth  — 

Now  to  our  Chieftain’s  health  ; 

Now  to  our  newly  crowned  sister  of  Maine.* 
Here ’s  to  the  stripes  and  stars ; 

Ne’er  may  our  gallant  tars 
Nail  to  the  mast  the  striped  bunting  in  vain. 


To  the  Congress  of  the  United  States. 


The  soldier  was  young,  he  was  ardent  and  strong, 
Encircled  by  all  that  endears, 

When  the  voice  of  his  country,  to  shield  her  from 
wrong, 

Like  a  fire-cry  rang  on  his  ears. 

He  left  his  fair  wife  with  the  babe  on  her  knee, 

The  altar  and  home  of  his  sire  ; 

He  heard  but  one  voice  — ’t  was  his  country’s  ;  for  thee, 
For  thee  to  contend  or  expire. 


*  First  published  Nov.  9,  1850,  but  written  some  years  previous,  I  do  not 
remember  precisely  —  between  1820  and  1830,  or  soon  after  Maine  became  a 
State.  F.  M.  A. 


204 


PATRIOTIC. 


His  country  has  triumphed  ;  the  soldier  returns, 
But  battered  and  worn  in  the  strife, 

To  sit  on  the  hearth  where  his  small  fire  burns, 
Supported  and  nursed  by  his  wife. 

And  forty  years  after,  when  feeble  and  poor, 

He  calls  on  his  country  for  aid, 

Say,  shall  his  petition  be  thrown  on  the  floor? 
Shall  thus  the  old  soldier  be  paid? 


July  8,  1854. 


They  are  going  —  going  —  going 
To  their  last,  long  resting-place, 

Who  patiently  have  waited 

For  a  thankless  country’s  grace. 

Go  now  and  build  their  monuments, 

And  claim  your  kindred  blood  — 

You  who,  while  they  were  suff’ring  here, 
Unheeding  by  have  stood. 

Go,  ingrates  !  shed  above  their  graves 
Your  hypocritic  tears, 

And  boast  that  you  have  honored  them 
With  plaudits  and  with  cheers. 

When  haughty  Britain  made  her  boast, 

“  Britannia  rules  the  waves,” 


NEW  ENGLAND  WAR-CRY. 


205 


Impressed  your  seamen,  seized  your  ships, 
And  sought  to  make  you  slaves, 

The  men  of  eighteen  hundred  twelve, 

In  many  desp’rate  fights, 

The  noble  principle  maintained 
Of  just  and  equal  rights. 

Their  prowess  broke  the  tyrants’  spell, 
And  freed  Columbia’s  shore  : 

The  pirate  of  the  ocean  wave 
Can  rule  the  seas  no  more. 

No  more  our  gallant  seamen  fear 
The  press-gang  on  the  sea  : 

The  men  of  eighteen  hundred  twelve 
Have  made  the  ocean  free. 


March  9,  1867. 


New  England  has  sounded  her  war-cry  again, 

And  her  sons  to  the  call  from  hill,  valley,  and  plain, 
With  rifle,  and  sabre,  and  death-dealing  balls, 

Like  a  tempest  rush  on  where  dear  Liberty  calls. 


The  blood  of  the  Pilgrims  is  mounting  again  ; 

To  the  front,  like  your  fathers  —  their  glory  sustain. 


206 


PATRIOTIC. 


To  the  front,  brave  New  England ;  ring  out  your  war- 
cry, 

“The  true  sons  of  the  Pilgrims  will  conquer  or  die!” 

Woe,  woe  to  the  traitors  who  dare  to  contend 
With  the  phalanx  New  England  to  battle  will  send  ; 
For  ne’er  have  her  sons  on  a  battle-field  trod 
Unreliant  of  Justice,  of  Freedom,  or  God. 

Nor  ever  for  vict’ry  alone  do  they  fight, 

But  the  cause  of  humanity,  freedom,  and  right  — 

The  cause  of  O’Connell,  of  Wallace,  and  Tell, 

And  of  every  brave  heart  who  for  Liberty  fell ; 

The  cause  of  mankind  —  and  it  shall  be  sustained, 
Though  the  blood  of  our  hearts  should  in  torrents  be 
drained  : 

Though  tyrants  with  traitors  unnumbered  unite, 

We,  undaunted,  will  meet  them  for  God  and  the  right- 


Though  Old  Time  my  hand  has  shaken, 
With  the  pen  it  still  can  guide  ; 

Some  to  arm  it  may  awaken 

Who  will  fight  on  Freedom’s  side. 


WE  ARE  COMING. 


207 


If  but  one,  at  my  endeavor, 

Springs  to  beat  oppression  down, 
Sacred  in  my  heart  forever, 

I  will  use  him  as  my  own. 

One  in  number’s  but  a  trifle, 

Yet  we  may  from  history  learn, 
One  brave  heart  and  one  good  rifle 
May  the  scale  of  victory  turn. 


We  are  coming  by  the  thousands, 

As  our  brothers  came  before  — 

Who  well  redeemed  their  manly  pledge 
On  many  a  field  of  gore. 

From  the  woodland  and  the  city, 

From  the  mountain  and  the  glen, 

We  are  coming,  coming,  coming  — 
Twice  five  hundred  thousand  men. 

All  our  bugle-notes  are  ringing, 

And  the  cry  is,  Still  we  come ; 

While  from  every  hill  and  valley 
Echoes  Freedom’s  larum  drum. 

On  the  ocean,  lake,  and  rivers 
Floats  the  banner  of  the  free  ; 

We  are  coming,  coming,  coming  — 

The  true  sons  of  Liberty. 


208 


PATRIOTIC. 


Lo  !  a  million  gallant  spirits 

Armed  in  Freedom’s  holy  cause, 

To  impale  the  heart  of  Treason, 

And  sustain  our  nation’s  laws, 

To  protect  the  world’s  asylum, 

In  defense  of  all  that’s  dear, 

We  are  coming,  coming,  coming  — 
We  are  coming  ;  we  are  here  ! 

We  are  here  to  fight  for  Freedom, 
And  where’er  our  banners  wave, 

By  the  stars  now  floating  o’er  us, 

We  will  know  no  man  a  slave ! 

We  are  coming,  will  be  coming, 

We  who  never  bent  the  knee, 

Till  Maine  replies  to  Oregon, 

All ’s  well ;  our  country ’s  free  — 

Until  all  domestic  traitors 

Feel  the  sword  they  dared  defy, 

And  foreign  nations  love  or  fear 
This  land  of  Liberty. 

We  are  coming,  coming,  coming  — 
We  are  coming  ;  we  are  here  : 

Let  the  rebel  tyrants  tremble 
When  our  earthquake  tread  is  near ! 

We  are  coming,  coming,  coming  — 
And  the  flag  that  o’er  us  waves 

Shall  adorn  the  Ark  of  Freedom, 

Or  enshroud  us  in  our  graves. 


Sept.  1 6,  1862. 


FIGHT  ON  FOR  LIBERTY. 


209 


Ricibt  on  for  Qibert 


A  colored  soldier  in  Tennessee  was  mortally  wounded.  He  told  his  officer  that 
he  could  not  live,  but  would  die  fighting  for  the  flag  of  Liberty,  and  con¬ 
tinued  to  discharge  his  rifle  till  he  fell  dead  on  the  field  of  glory. 

(Tune  —  Auld  Lang  Syne.) 

The  ball  had  crushed  a  vital  part  — 

He  could  not  long  survive  ; 

But,  with  a  brave  and  loyal  heart, 

For  victory  still  would  strive  : 

For  victory  still  would  strive, 

For  victory  still  would  strive  ; 

But,  with  a  brave  and  loyal  heart, 

For  victory  still  would  strive. 

His  rifle  ’gainst  the  traitor  foe 
With  deadly  aim  would  ply, 

And,  till  his  life-blood  ceased  to  flow, 

Fight  on  for  liberty : 

Fight  on  for  liberty! 

Fight  on  for  liberty ! 

And,  till  his  life-blood  ceased  to  flow, 

Fight  on  for  liberty  ! 

His  skin  was  of  the  ebon  hue, 

His  heart  was  nobly  brave  ; 

To  country,  flag,  and  freedom  true, 

He  would  not  live  a  slave  : 


210 


PATRIOTIC. 


He  would  not  live  a  slave  ; 

He  would  not  live  a  slave  ; 

To  country,  flag,  and  freedom  true, 
He  would  not  live  a  slave. 

His  rifle  flashed  —  a  traitor  falls, 

While  death  is  in  his  eye ; 

He  bravely  to  his  comrades  calls, 

“  Fight  on  for  liberty  !” 

Fight  on  for  liberty  ! 

Fight  on  for  liberty  ! 

He  bravely  to  his  comrades  calls, 

“  Fight  on  for  liberty  ! 

He  looked  upon  his  bannered  sign, 

He  bowed  his  noble  head  ; 

Farewell,  beloved  flag  of  mine, 

Then  fell  among  the  dead  : 

Then  fell  among  the  dead, 

Then  fell  among  the  dead  ; 
Farewell,  beloved  flag  of  mine, 
Then  fell  among  the  dead. 

His  comrades  will  remember  well 
The  hero’s  battle-cry, 

As  in  the  arms  of  Death  he  fell  — 

“  Fight  on  for  liberty  ! 

Fight  on  for  liberty  ! 

Fight  on  for  liberty! 

As  in  the  arms  of  Death  he  fell  — 
“Fight  on  for  liberty ! 


SHALL  WE  FORGET  THEM?  NEVER! 


211 


And  still  for  liberty  and  laws 
His  comrades  will  contend, 

Till  victory  crowns  the  righteous  cause, 

And  tyrant  powers  shall  end  : 

And  tyrant  powers  shall  end, 

And  tyrant  powers  shall  end ; 

Till  victory  crowns  the  righteous  cause, 
And  tyrant  power  shall  end. 

Though  low  in  earth  the  martyr  lies, 

Still  rings  his  battle-cry  ; 

From  hill  to  hill  the  echo  flies, 

“  Fight  on  for  liberty  !  ” 

Fight  on  for  liberty  ! 

Fight  on  for  liberty ! 

From  hill  to  hill  the  echo  flies, 

“  Fight  on  for  liberty  !  ” 


l^all  We  Ror^et  (^j)l}em?  R>  ever  ! 


(Air  —  Soldier’s  Return.) 

The  bugles  ’woke  the  echoes  ’round 
Our  humble  rustic  dwelling  ; 

And  promptly  at  the  thrilling  sound, 
His  heart  with  ardor  swelling, 

Our  gallant  boy  the  rifle  grasped, 

To  go  where  cannons  rattle  — 

The  clinging  bands  of  love  unclasped 
To  meet  the  front  of  battle. 


212 


PATRIOTIC. 


His  country’s  blessing  with  him  goes, 

Her  banner  floating  o’er  him, 

And  warm  the  supplication  rose, 

“  Our  father’s  God,  restore  him  ! 

In  danger’s  path,  where  duty  led, 

’Gainst  cold  and  hunger  striving, 

The  naked  Earth  the  stripling’s  bed, 

The  rain-storm  o’er  him  driving  — 

The  toilsome  march,  the  rugged  way, 

The  foeman’s  battle  round  him, 

Yet  still  where  duty  led  the  way 
His  comrades  ever  found  him. 

A  righteous  cause  his  heart  sustains, 

That  beats  with  faith  untiring  ; 

The  love  of  country  warms  his  veins, 

The  Pilgrim’s  blood  inspiring. 

In  vain,  by  barb’rous  murders  done, 

His  foemen  would  appall  him  ; 

The  patriot  soldier  marches  on 
Where  Freedom’s  bugles  call  him. 

But  hark!  there  sounds  the  muffled  drum  ; 
The  soldier’s  dirge  is  swelling  ; 

The  mournful  tidings  hither  come, 

And  reach  our  humble  dwelling. 

Your  faithful  son  the  battle  strife 
Met,  where  his  country  bade  him, 

Unscathed,  till  fever  preyed  on  life  : 

In  honor’s  bed  they ’ve  laid  him. 


SHALL  WE  FORGET  THEM?  MERER/ 


213 


Mourn  not  for  him  ;  his  living  name 
The  meed  of  praise  awarded 
Is  graven  on  the  rock  of  fame, 

To  latest  time  recorded. 

Though  doomed  in  Freedom’s  cause  to  fall, 
And  veiled  in  death’s  cold  regions, 

Again  he  ’ll  hear  the  trumpet’s  call, 

And  join  the  immortal  legions. 

Though  thousands  swell  the  martyr  host, 
Shall  we  forget  them  ?  Never  ! 

The  humblest  name  shall  not  be  lost  — 
Their  light  will  shine  forever. 

And  millions  yet,  with  patriot  pride, 

Will  read  th’  ennobling  story, 

How  their  brave  kindred  fought  or  died, 
And  sing  their  songs  of  glory. 

And  while  a  relic  shall  remain 

Who  fought  for  Freedom’s  banner3 
A  grateful  country  will  sustain, 

A  Nation’s  heart  will  honor. 

Then  rally  ’round  your  father’s  flag, 

Brave  sons  of  noblest  sires, 

Nor  let  your  patriot  spirits  lag 
Till  life’s  last  spark  expires. 

That  flag,  by  daring  courage  gained 
’Gainst  tyrant  power  contending, 

Your  children’s  birthright,  leave  unstained, 
Or  bravely  die  defending. 


June  13,  1863. 


214 


PATRIOTIC. 


w 


decoration  day,  1 874. 


The  spirit  asks,  Can  dry  bones  live  ? 
Through  faith  our  eyes  can  see 

That  He  who  made  them  life  can  give, 

To  live,  our  God,  to  thee. 

From  year  to  year  we  seek  these  mounds 
Where  our  loved  comrades  lie  : 

Beneath  these  consecrated  grounds, 

To  us  they  did  not  die. 

From  year  to  year  with  flowers  we  strew 
These  tear  bedewed  graves, 

And  our  fidelity  renew 

To  our  loved,  honored  braves. 

Though  buried  here  beyond  our  sight, 
Their  voices  still  ascend, 

And  say  to  us,  “  Maintain  the  right; 

Our  fathers’  flag  defend.” 

The  cause  for  which  they  bravely  died 
Their  brethren  will  sustain  : 

The  flag  that  ever  was  their  pride 
Shall  bear  no  coward  stain  ! 

Farewell !  farewell !  from  year  to  year 
We  leave  thee  not  alone  ; 

Our  hearts  are  with  thee,  comrades  dear, 
Till  life’s  last  battle ’s  done. 


May  30,  1874. 


OLD  ERIN  AWAKE! 


215 


01  cJ  Brin  0wa^e  ! 


Old  Erin  has  started  again  on  her  taps, 

And  her  boys  are  all  making  their  liberty-caps : 

She  comes  in  her  strength  like  the  waves  on  our  shore, 
And  regenerate  Erin  will  stagger  no  more  — 

Huzza  !  huzza  !  huzza  !  huzza  !  huzza  !  huzza  ! 

St.  Patrick  drove  out  all  our  vermin,  't  is  said, 

But  ’tis  some  we’ll  drive  yet  who  are  eating  our  bread. 
O’Connell,  that  task  is  assigned  to  thee, 

And  now  give  but  the  signal  old  Erin  to  free  — 

Huzza !  huzza  !  huzza  !  huzza  !  huzza  !  huzza  ! 

The  vipers  we  nourished  and  fed  by  our  toil, 

Shall  be  pampered  no  more  on  the  Emerald  Isle  : 

So,  Erin,  prepare  — for  O’Connell  make  room  ; 

He  is  grading  the  land  to  build  Emmet  a  tomb  — 

Huzza!  huzza!  huzza!  huzza!  huzza!  huzza! 

For  Erin  her  rank  with  the  nations  will  take  — 

Her  old  gauntlet  is  ready  when  life  is  at  stake ; 

Her  helmet  is  off,  and  her  bosom  is  bare, 

But  her  shield  is  of  proof  against  tyranny’s  spear  — 
Huzza !  huzza !  huzza  !  huzza !  huzza !  huzza  ! 

Her  herald  advances  with  trumpet  in  hand, 

And  she  waits  but  the  signal  and  word  of  command  : 

She  stands  like  a  queen  in  her  beauty  and  might, 

And  her  motto  is,  Freedom,  and  God  for  the  right  — 
Huzza  !  huzza !  huzza !  huzza !  huzza !  huzza  ! 


216 


PATRIOTIC. 


Brave  Erin  is  ready  —  she  fears  not  a  scar  ; 

And  now,  boys,  for  her  Slogan  and  Erin  go  bragh. 
“  On,  on  for  old  Erin !  ”  resounds  from  afar, 

For  old  Erin  mavourneen,  dear  Erin  go  bragh  — 
Huzza!  huzza!  huzza!  huzza!  huzza!  huzza! 


All  hail  to  the  glorious  flag  of  our  nation, 

That  gallantly  triumphed  o’er  Albion*s  crown, 

And  gained  by  its  prowess  the  world’s  approbation 
When  tyranny’s  colors  went  hopelessly  down  ;  — 

The  flag  that  at  Bunker,  at  Monmouth,  and  Eutaw 
Our  noble  old  fathers  baptized  with  their  blood, 
And,  pledging  their  lives  and  their  honor  anew  for, 
Both  tyrants  and  traitors  undaunted  withstood. 

At  Bennington,  York,  Saratoga,  and  Trenton 
Our  patriot  heroes  this  banner  upheld, 

And  death  or  their  ever-dear  liberty  bent  on, 

The  doubts  and  the  fears  of  their  country  dispelled  ; 

The  flag  of  the  free,  that  destroyed  the  delusion 
That  England  the  ocean  might  claim  for  her  own, 
When  Hull,  gallant  Hull,  in  the  old  Constitution, 
Sunk  Britain’s  bold  frigate,  the  Guerriere,  down  ; 


THE  FLAG  OF  OUR  NATION. 


217 


When  Jackson  at  Orleans  a  vict’ry  effected, 

Despite  the  great  bluster  of  Pakenham’s  boast, 

And  booty  and  beauty  so  bravely  protected, 

Triumphant  o’er  Wellington’s  much-vaunted  host ; 

The  flag  that  rose  over  the  horns  of  the  Crescent, 

And  made  the  piratical  colors  down  haul : 

The  tyrant  demanded  for  tribute  a  present ; 

We  gave  it,  with  interest,  in  powder  and  ball, 

And  taught  the  barbarian  rovers  of  ocean 

Respect  for  the  flag  of  the  brave  and  the  free  — 
That  powder  and  shot  was  the  unfailing  portion 
We  gave  for  the  freedom  and  rights  of  the  sea ;  — 

The  flag  that  in  Mexico  daringly  flaunted, 

And  over  its  loftiest  battlements  rose, 

Sustained  by  the  men  who,  with  courage  undaunted, 
Defied  and  subdued  a  brave  nation  of  foes  ! 

Oh  !  wave  it  aloft !  let  it  float  as  our  token, 

Respected  and  honored  on  every  far  shore, 

That  slavery’s  yoke  has  been  shattered  and  broken  — 

That  tyranny  fails,  and  can  triumph  no  more. 

/ 

Uphold  and  surround  it,  you  gallant  defenders  ; 

Salute  it  with  rev’rence,  affection,  and  pride  — 

The  banner  of  freedom,  that  never  surrenders, 

Ne’er  was,  and  can  never  be,  safely  defied. 

The  stripes  for  our  foes  we  display ;  they  have  felt  them : 

Our  stars  are  the  emblems  of  glory  and  light. 

Let  tyrants  remember  the  blows  we  have  dealt  them  — 
Remember,  take  warning,  and  quail  at  the  sight. 


218 


PATRIOTIC. 


They  fear  —  well  they  may  —  the  joint  strength  of  our 
nation ; 

To  scatter  our  stars  they  have  foolishly  tried  ; 

But,  fixed  as  the  heavens  our  great  Constellation  — 
’T  is  one,  and  can  never,  no,  never  divide. 

The  spirit  of  Washington  faithfully  hovers 
Wherever  the  flag  of  his  country’s  unfurled, 

And  Liberty  welcomes  and  smiles  on  its  lovers ; 

By  thousands  they  come,  from  the  ends  of  the  world. 

Huzza  for  our  liberty —  Heaven-blessed  banner! 

Huzza  for  the  ark  of  the  brave  and  the  free ! 

Our  tempest-proof  ship  has  a  world’s  crew  to  man  her, 
By  nature  the  lords  of  the  earth  and  the  sea. 


ANTI-SLAVERY 


Were  3 


en. 


Were  I  a  Yankee  maiden, 

And  a  drop  of  blood  could  boast 
Allied  to  that  which  warmed  the  hearts 
Of  freedom’s  Pilgrim  host, 

While,  on  the  free  and  sacred  land 
Their  toil  and  courage  won, 

A  relic  of  their  worth  remained 
To  fix  the  affections  on, 

I  would  not  be  a  Southron’s  bride, 

To  own  a  wretched  slave  : 

Before  I’d  share  a  tyrant’s  bed, 

I ’d  share  a  freeman’s  grave  ! 

What  shame  and  sorrow  must  await 
The  vain  slaveholder’s  bride, 

To  eat  the  slave’s  tear-moistened  bread  — 
The  bitter  curse  to  bide  : 

To  feel  the  deep  and  damning  thought 
Suffuse  her  crimsoned  cheek 
That  she  it  is  who  guides  the  lash, 

And  tramples  on  the  weak : 


224 


ANTI-SLAVERY. 


To  know  that  all  her  gaudy  dress 
Is  striped  with  blood  and  tears  ; 

To  know  that  every  groan  ascends, 

And  that  th’  Eternal  hears  : 

To  know  a  hair-suspended  sword 
Hangs  o’er  her  guilty  head, 

And  all  her  life  and  honors  guard 
Its  weak  and  brittle  thread  : 

To  know  that  in  her  fatherland  — 

The  dwelling  of  the  free  — 

Her  dearest  friends  would  blush  to  show 
A  despot  sympathy  : 

To  know  her  meanest  slave  would  meet 
A  welcome  on  that  shore 

Where  she,  a  stigma  on  her  race, 

Could  find  a  home  no  more  ! 

Oh,  ne’er  may  Freedom’s  lilied  rose 
With  Slavery’s  nightshade  twine  : 

Accursed  be  the  unhallowed  rites 
At  Slavery’s  Moloch-shrine. 


bines 

Written  after  visiting  the  Ladies’  Anti-Slavery  Fair  at  Weymouth. 


Our  fathers,  when  contending  for  those  rights  which 
nature  gave, 

Cheered  on  by  noble  woman,  spurned  the  fetters  of  the 
slave. 


LINES. 


225 


On  many  a  desperate  battle-field  the  banner  of  the  fair, 

Emblazoned  by  their  patriot  hands,  and  tendered  with  a 
prayer, 

Went  foremost  in  the  bloody  fight,  and  led  our  gallant 
sires 

To  guard  that  pledge  of  victory  amidst  the  cannon  fires. 

No  lame  excuse  was  offered  then,  no  coward  took  to 
flight  ; 

They  read  in  every  woman’s  eye,  “  In  God’s  name,  to  the 
fight ! ” 

Again  the  flag  of  liberty  is  floating  in  the  air, 

And  forth  the  maid  and  matron  come  the  dangerous  strife 
to  share. 

Again,  with  patient  hope,  they  come  to  bear  the  toiling 
part, 

Where  Liberty  presents  a  foe  to  show  the  eagle  heart  — 

With  zeal  that  cannot  falter,  and  with  faith  that  will  not 
yield, 

A  firm,  unbroken  phalanx,  that’s  forever  in  the  field  ; 

A  force  that  shames  the  tyrant,  while  it  shakes  his  coward 
frame, 

And  shows  him  that  his  destiny  is  scorn,  defeat,  and 
shame. 

And  shall  the  sons  of  sires  who  disdained  to  wear  a  chain, 

Desert  the  flag  of  Liberty,  that ’s  now  unfurled  again  ?  — 

Desert  the  field  where  woman’s  voice  awakes  the  thrilling 
cry, 

And  calls  on  all  that ’s  man  on  earth  to  strike  for  Liberty  ? 

Oh !  tell  it  not  in  Plymouth,  lest  our  father’s  rock  should 
speak, 

And  bring  a  blush  of  crimson  hue  to  every  craven’s  cheek  ! 


226 


ANTI-SLAVERY. 


Oh  !  tell  it  not  in  Charlestown,  lest  the  dust  again  have  birth. 

And  Bunker’s  monument  should  sink  beneath  the  heaving 
earth ! 

In  vain  are  all  those  trophies  which  as  Freedom’s  sons  you 
boast, 

If  now  you  falter  ;  liberty  and  honor  all  are  lost. 

Oh  !  never  let  that  stigma  sound  above  our  fathers’  graves, 

But  let  our  earthquake  voice  be  heard,  This  land  shall  bear 
no  slave ! 


lavery. 


(Spoken  at  the  Weymouth  Sabbath-School.) 


Scene — A  plantation  in  South  Carolina.  Gasper  mocking  the  groans  of 
his  slave,  who  has  been  whipped. 


Enter  Oscar. 

Oscar. —  Friend  Gasper,  you  are  Southern  born, 

But  can  you  mock  at  such  a  deed  ? 

Behold  your  slave  all  gashed  and  torn  — 

(Gasper  looks  -  T  ,  ,  ,  _ 

scornfully.)  Nay,  cast  not  here  that  look  of  scorn  ; 

I  weep  to  see  a  brother  bleed. 

brother*!*”)  A  A  brother !  aye,  a  brother  :  true 

Our  God,  his  Father  —  thine  and  mine  — 

Has  made  his  skin  of  darker  hue, 

But  to  our  great  Creator’s  view 

His  soul  may  be  as  white  as  thine. 

(Gasper:  “  Faintheart !”  you  call  me.  Hear  me,  friend — 

“Fainthearted !”)  ,r  r  .  .  T  J  .. 

'  If  friend  I  may  a  tyrant  call : 

Henceforth,  whoever  I  offend, 

’Gainst  hateful  slavery  I  ’ll  contend  ; 


THE  FUGITIVE  SLAVE. 


227 


For  Freedom  stand,  or  with  her  fall ! 
Adieu  :  I  leave  your  Southern  clime  ; 

For  all  the  land  that  despots  own 
I  would  not  share  your  cherished  crime, 
Nor  wade  amidst  its  sickening  slime 
To  win  a  monarch’s  jeweled  throne. 

I’ll  to  the  North,  my  native  land, — 
There  Freedom’s  star  is  shining  still, — 
And  join  that  firm,  devoted  band 
Whose  beacon  fires,  by  Freedom  fanned, 
Illumine  every  rugged  hill. 

A  curse  is  in  your  Southern  sky  ; 

A  curse  is  on  your  Southern  shore  ; 
Through  all  your  groves  fell  curses  sigh, 
And  deep  and  hard  the  curse  will  lie 
Till  blighting  slavery  is  no  more  ! 


A  DIALOGUE. 

Scene  —  Front  of  a  cottage.  Dart  on  the  lookout. 
[Enter  Deacon  Thoughtful .] 

Deacon  —  Son,  what’s  the  matter?  what  goes  ill  ? 

I  thought  I  heard  the  cry  of  hounds. 

Dart  —  Look,  father!  look!  along  the  hill  — 

Oh  jemmy !  — how  that  nigger  bounds ! 
Look,  father !  see  the  fellow  run  ; 

He’s  coming  here,  as  sure ’s  a  gun. 


228 


ANTI-SLAVERY. 


[. Enter  slave  Darewell.  ] 

Darewell  —  Christian,  I  am  a  runaway; 

My  master’s  hounds  are  on  my  track ! 

To  you  for  mercy  now  I  pray  — 

Oh  !  send  me  not  to  slavery  back  ! 

My  strength  is  spent ;  the  dogs  are  near  ; 

For  Christ’s  sake  give  me  shelter  here! 

Deacon  —  Poor  fugitive  !  there  is  a  law 
To  fine  me  more  than  all  I  have, 

If  on  myself  the  risk  I  draw 
By  giving  shelter  to  a  slave. 

My  country’s  laws  I  must  not  break  — 

No,  no,  not  e’en  for  Jesus’  sake. 

Dart  —  Father,  let ’s  seize  him  ;  the  reward 
Is  fifty  dollars,  all  in  cash. 

I  ’ll  help  you  tie  him  —  here’s  a  cord  ; 

We’ll  stop  his  whining  with  a  lash. 

Come,  nigger,  yield  yourself  at  once, 

Or  with  this  stick  I  ’ll  break  your  sconce. 
Darewell —  Hear  me,  young  ruffian  —  stay  your  hand  ; 
I  now  am  free,  and  so  will  die : 

The  dogs  shall  rend  me  where  I  stand 
Ere  I  resign  my  liberty. 

I  was  told  Christians  here  reside  ; 

May  Heaven  forgive  my  faithless  guide. 

[  Going .] 

Deacon  —  Stay,  fugitive;  I  should  be  one, 

For  I  have  taken  the  Christian’s  name. 

Put  down  your  stick,  my  graceless  son  ; 

We  both  are  wickedly  to  blame. 

Should  I  reject  his  prayer,  for  gain, 

My  prayer  for  mercy,  too,  were  vain. 


THE  FUGITIVE  SLAVE. 


229 


Forgive  me,  brother — coward  fear 
Impelled  me  to  refuse  your  prayer  ; 

But  conscience  whispers  in  my  ear, 

Your  God  and  mine  is  everywhere. 

Should  you  to  ruin  forth  be  driven, 

How  could  I  dare  to  hope  for  heaven  ? 

Come  in,  whate’er  my  means  afford 
Of  food  and  shelter,  here  you’  11  find  ; 

’Tis  the  commandment  of  our  Lord, 

Denied  but  by  the  willful  blind. 

In  sheltering  you  my  all ’s  at  stake  ; 

But  yet  come  in,  for  Jesus’  sake. 

Darewell  —  I  fain  would  thank  you  ;  my  full  heart 
Can  feel,  but  cannot  now  express 
The  gratitude  it  would  impart 
For  kindness  in  my  deep  distress  ; 

But  He  who  black  and  white  has  made, 

Will  leave  no  generous  act  unpaid. 

[  They  enter  the  cottage.  Dart  alone.  ] 

Dart  —  Hello  !  what  now  —  that ’s  not  so  bad, 

If  ’taint  a  passing  conscience  fit. 

I ’m  rather  proud  of  my  old  Dad  ! 

That’s  what  I ’m  after  calling  grit : 

’T  is  risking  life  to  screen  a  slave. 

I  see  that  Christians  can  be  brave. 

My  father’s  in  for ’t  —  spurns  the  chink; 

Old  dad ’s  a  Christian,  sure ’s  a  gun  ! 

They  must  be  clever  folks,  I  think  ; 

I  almost  wish  that  I  was  one. 

To  help  the  fellow  in  his  need  — 

Hang  me !  but ’t  was  a  noble  deed. 


230 


ANTI-SLAVERY. 


I  ’ll  put  the  hunters  off  the  track, 

And  send  them  blundering  through  the  wood  ; 
They  shall  not  have  their  victim  back, 

Nor  feast  their  dogs  with  human  blood. 

My  father ’s  right,  as  sure ’s  a  gun  ! 

Well  done  !  old  dad;  well  done !  well  done! 
Nov.  21,  1857. 


B 


scape 


p* 


of  \\)Q  Hunted 


ave. 


Who  is  it  that  flies,  like  the  rush  of  the  wind, 

O’er  briar  and  brake,  with  the  hunters  behind  ? 

With  looks  of  wild  terror,  through  forest  and  fen, 

He  springs  o’er  the  cataract  deep  in  the  glen. 

The  hounds  are  at  fault ;  he  has  baffled  the  snare  : 
Securely  he  lies  in  the  catamount’s  lair. 

There,  panting  and  thirsty,  and  hungry  and  worn, 

Lies  the  fugitive  slave,  who  to  freedom  was  born,  * 

Concealed  till  the  shadows  of  evening  appear, 

When  again  through  the  forest  he  springs  like  the  deer. 
He  follows  no  path  ;  but  the  bright  Northern  star 
Is  his  lanthorn  and  guide  on  his  journey  afar. 

Victoria!  he  looks  for  protection  to  thee, 

While  his  heart  is  determined  to  die  or  live  free. 

Oh !  Thou  who  art  mighty  to  rescue  and  save, 

Give  wings  to  the  feet  of  the  fugitive  slave. 


*  “  All  men  are  born  free  and  equal.”  —  Jefferson. 


EMANCIPA  TION. 


231 


The  morning  had  dawned  ere  the  bright  lake  he  viewed. 
As,  panting  for  breath,  by  his  hunters  pursued, 

He  sprang  to  the  boat  where  the  ferryman  stood, 

But  fainting  and  speechless,  and  streaming  with  blood. 

The  boatman,  astonished,  obeyed  the  mute  sign  ; 

He  sprang  to  his  oars  —  he  pulled  hard  for  the  line. 

But  hark  !  there ’s  a  cry  from  the  land  of  the  slave  ; 

Two  horsemen  are  calling  aloud  o’er  the  wave, — 

“  Return,  on  your  life  !  you ’ve  our  chattel  on  board  !” 
But  the  boatman  pulled  stronger,  nor  answered  a  word. 
He  read  his  warm  thanks  in  the  fugitive’s  eye, 

As  his  boat  skimmed  the  wave  like  a  bird  in  the  sky. 

Huzza  for  the  slave!  the  keel  strikes —  he  is  free! 
Blessed  land !  as  he  touched  thee  he  sank  on  his  knee  ; 
His  heart  rose  to  Heaven,  his  lips  kissed  the  sod  — 
“For  freedom  I  thank  thee,  my  Saviour,  my  God!” 


(Tune  —  Auld  Lang  Syne.)* 


’Tis  done  —  the  righteous  deed  is  done, 
Proclaimed  the  jubilee  ; 


Columbia  hails  her  faithful  son, 
The  father  of  the  free. 


*  For  Chorus,  repeat  last  two  lines  of  each  verse. 


232 


ANTI-SLAVERY. 


Cho.  —  The  father  of  the  free, 

The  father  of  the  free ; 

Columbia  hails  her  faithful  son, 
The  father  of  the  free. 

Aloft  the  signal  flag  is  raised, 

The  swift-winged  tidings  fly  ; 

“  Glory  to  God  !  his  name  be  praised  !  ” 
Unnumbered  tongues  reply. 

Fair  Freedom  lifts  her  drooping  head  ; 
A  smile  her  tears  restrain, 

Though  mourning  still  her  noble  dead, 
Who  died  to  break  her  chain. 

A  blessing  on  our  chieftain’s  name, 

Who  gave  the  great  command  ; 

Engrave  it  on  the  rock  of  Fame, 

“  He  freed  his  native  land.” 

And  let  the  list’ning  nations  hear, 
Throughout  creation’s  bound, 

That  Freedom  has  her  dwelling  here, 
Her  land  is  holy  ground. 

A  refuge  for  the  suff’ring  poor, 

A  home  for  the  oppressed, 

She  opens  wide  her  friendly  door, 

And  feeds  them  from  her  breast. 

No  more,  his  eyes  with  weeping  dim, 
The  slave  unpitied  pines  ; 

The  stripes  and  stars  now  shelter  him  — 
The  sun  of  Freedom  shines. 


ABOLITION  OF  SLAVERY  IN  THE  WEST  INDIES.  233 


Huzza!  proclaim  the  jubilee  ! 

Let  grateful  anthems  rise  ! 

“  Huzza !  Columbia’s  land  is  free !  ” 
Re-echoes  through  the  skies. 

Now  let  the  host  of  traitors  come, 
With  foreign  foes  allied  ; 

One  tap  on  Freedom’s  larum  drum, 
The  world  is  on  our  side. 


on  o 


f 


la  very  in 


tl )Q  West  Indies. 


When  late,  on  Western  India’s  shore, 

The  tortured  slave  for  freedom  pined, 

Ah  !  who  can  tell  his  sorrows  o’er, 

To  slavery’s  countless  wrongs  consigned  ? 

No  joy  the  morning  brought  to  him  — 

To  him  the  evening  gave  no  rest ; 

His  cup  of  grief  o’erflowed  the  brim  ; 

His  heart  was  with’ring  in  his  breast. 

But  hark  !  the  voice  of  Mercy  cries, 

“  Break  every  yoke  —  the  oppressed  set  free  !  ” 
The  slave  lifts  up  his  thankful  eyes, 

And  bends  to  earth  his  grateful  knee. 


234 


ANTI-SLAVERY. 


The  chains  are  falling  from  his  hands ; 

His  heart  with  new-born  rapture  springs : 
Before  his  God  the  freed  man  stands, 

And  hark !  ’t  is  Freedom’s  song  he  sings  :  — 

“  Praise  to  God,  who  ever  reigns  ; 

Praise  to  Him  who  burst  our  chains : 

For  the  priceless  blessing  given, 

Thanks,  our  grateful  thanks,  to  Heaven. 

Here  no  more  the  bloody  scourge 
Afric’s  fainting  sons  shall  urge  ; 

Here  no  more  shall  galling  chains 
Wear  our  flesh  with  fest’ring  pains  ; 

Here  no  more  the  frantic  slave 
Fly  for  refuge  to  the  grave  : 

Freedom  comes  to  banish  fear; 

Hallelujah  !  God  is  here ! 

Long  and  loud  with  praises  fill 
Deepest  glen  and  highest  hill ; 

Mountain  peak  and  sea-girt  shore 
Echo,  “  Slavery’s  reign  is  o’er  !  ” 

Kindred,  country,  now  we  claim, 

Praise  to  God’s  beloved  name  ; 

Father,  for  this  jubilee 
Thanks,  eternal  thanks,  to  thee  ! 


Aug.  4,  1843. 


ABOLITION  OF  SLAVERY  IN  THE  EAST  INDIES.  235 


iQst  ^nd 


es. 


Again  the  harp  of  Freedom  sounds  ; 

The  startled  world  with  echo  rings  ! 

From  jeweled  India’s  farthest  bounds 
The  ransomed  millions  sweep  the  strings. 

Glory  to  God,  the  struggle’s  o’er! 

The  Indies  own  a  slave  no  more. 

Queen  of  the  Isles !  another  gem 
Is  added  to  thy  sunny  brow, 

The  fairest  in  thy  diadem  ; 

It  makes  thee  Queen  of  India  now. 

A  grateful  nation’s  freedom-cry 
Bursts,  like  a  meteor,  through  the  sky. 

What  rapture  now  their  bosoms  swell ! 

They  stretch  their  arms  —  they  feel  them  free  ! 
None  but  the  ransomed  tongue  can  tell 
The  joys  of  Freedom’s  jubilee. 

Victoria!  ’round  thine  honored  throne 
A  brighter  glory  ne’er  has  shone. 

The  despot  on  his  guarded  bed 

Shall  from  his  dreamy  slumber  start, 

The  sword  of  vengeance  o’er  his  head, 

And  terror  in  his  guilty  heart ; 

But  thou,  throughout  thy  wide  domain, 

Hast  not  a  slave  to  curse  thy  reign. 


236 


ANTI-SLAVERY. 


The  sun,  that  on  his  journey  rolls, 

And  o’er  thine  empire  ne’er  goes  down, 

That  lights  at  times  the  distant  poles, 

But  ever  smiles  on  Britain’s  crown, 

Looks  down  on  many  a  despot’s  grave, 
But  shines  not  on  a  British  slave. 

Columbia!  will  you  be  the  last 
Oppression’s  iron  yoke  to  break  ? 

Shall  scorning  nations  on  thee  cast 
The  withering  stigma  ?  No  —  awake  ! 
Shake  off  the  fetters  from  your  knee, 
And  rise  from  blighting  slavery  free  ! 

In  vain  where  gallant  Warren  bled 
You  boast  of  victory  o’er  a  throne  : 

’Tis  mock’ry  o’er  the  martyred  dead 
To  rear  the  monumental  stone, 

While  every  wind  that  fans  their  graves 
Is  poisoned  with  the  breath  of  slaves  ! 

Aug.  4,  1844.  _ 


Written  for  and  sung  at  the  Anti-Slavery  Picnic  at  Dorchester,  Aug  1,  1847. 


(Tune —  Patriotic  Fire-cry.) 

Hark!  the  cry  Emancipation! 

Freedom  lifts  her  voice  to-day  : 
May  it  echo  through  the  nation, 
Till  the  hardest  hearts  obey  — 


FREEDOM. 


237 


Till  the  men  of  lofty  station 
At  her  feet  their  offerings  lay. 

Cho. —  La,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la,  la. 


On  this  day  the  notes  of  gladness 
Rose,  like  incense,  from  the  isles. 
Banished  was  the  cause  of  sadness  — 
Slavery’s  scourge  no  more  defiles  ; 
Tears  that  stung  the  brain  to  madness, 
Freedom  changed  to  joyful  smiles. 

Lift  the  voice  with  heart-emotion  ; 

Not  a  note  shall  e’er  be  lost ; 
Freedom’s  hymn  of  pure  devotion 
Yet  shall  shake  this  iron  coast  — 
Like  the  drops  that  form  the  ocean, 
Yet  shall  number  Freedom’s  host. 

O’er  our  land  while  human  cattle 
Labor,  bleed,  and  hope  in  vain, 
While  the  despot  claims  his  chattel, 
Struggle  still  to  break  his  chain. 
Gird  the  loins  !  prepare  for  battle  : 

God  is  with  us  /  strive  again. 


*  TEMPERANCE  * 


Come,  listen,  while  I  of  cold  water  will  sing  — 

For  what  with  its  worth  can  compare? 

How  sparkling  it  flows  from  the  clear,  bubbling  spring, 
Commingling  its  sweets  with  the  air. 

When,  thirsty  and  footworn,  I  traveled  along, 

No  riv’let  or  dwelling  was  there  ; 

My  poor  panting  dog  lolled  his  fever-scorched  tongue, 
And  snuffed  the  hot  wind  in  despair. 

When,  far  in  the  distance,  a  something  looked  bright, 
Reflecting  the  rays  of  the  sun, 

I  hastened  my  pace,  overjoyed  with  delight, 

While  Tray  started  off  on  the  run. 

Though  fainting  and  weary,  I  followed  him  near : 

He  plunged  to  his  ears  in  the  tide. 

A  cool,  crystal  fountain  was  bubbling  up  here  ; 

I  sat  myself  down  by  its  side. 


242 


TEMPERANCE. 


With  prudence,  I  bathed  both  my  hands  and  my  face, 
Then  laid  my  parched  lips  to  the  brink. 

And  thanked  the  good  God  of  the  whole  human  race, 
Who  poured  out  his  treasure  in  that  desert  place, 
And  gave  me  cool  water  to  drink. 

Nov.  25, 1848. 


ere 


ame 


(Tune —  Erin  go  Bragh.) 


There  came  for  the  pledge  a  poor  victim  of  folly; 

His  face  bore  the  marks  of  contention  and  strife: 
With  his  children  he  came,  his  poor  Oscar  and  Rolla, 
And  her,  the  poor  sufferer,  his  soul-stricken  wife. 

Oh  !  sad  was  his  heart  as  around  him  he  gazed  ; 

His  wild,  staring  eyes  with  hard  drinking  were  glazed  ; 
He  felt  like  a  stranger,  ashamed  and  amazed, 

And  seemed  undecided  to  tarry  or  go. 

Intemperance  had  set  her  foul  seal  on  his  features, 

And  heart-grinding  poverty  claimed  him  her  own. 
You  scarce  could  believe  he  was  one  of  God’s  creatures, 
He  looked  so  unmanly,  so  wretched,  and  lone. 

He  asked  for  the  pledge  with  a  voice  of  petition, 

And  he  eyed  it  all  over  with  a  look  of  contrition, 

Till  meekly  he  came  to  the  prudent  decision 
’T  were  safest  to  sign  it,  and  ’scape  from  his  foe. 


THERE  CAME  FOR  THE  PLEDGE. 


243 


He  stretched  forth  his  hand,  that  with  palsy  was  shaking, 
And  scarce  could  his  fingers  support  the  light  pen. 

He  sobbed  as  he  wrote,  for  his  stout  heart  was  breaking  : 

He  signed  —  and  again  he  is  numbered  with  men. 
Intently  he  gazed  on  the  record  before  him, 

While  looked  his  poor  wife  as  she  fain  would  adore  him, 
Convinced  that  the  pledge  would  to  virtue  restore  him, 
And  give  her  own  husband  again  to  her  heart. 

“  ’T  is  done  !  ”  he  exclaimed,  while  his  Miriam  clung  ’round 
him, 

And,  kissing  his  fingers,  his  little  ones  stand. 

“ ’T  is  done;  nevermore  shall  the  rum-thief — confound 
him !  — 

Grow  rich  by  the  toil  of  an  Irishman’s  hand.” 

As  one  that  is  roused  from  a  dream  that  oppresses, 

And  wakes  to  the  joy  of  his  loved  ones’  caresses, 

So  looked  the  reformed  as  his  Miriam  he  blesses, 

And  vows  from  his  promise  to  never  depart. 

There  came  to  the  church  a  fair  daughter  of  Erin, 

While  two  lovely  children  her  footsteps  attend  ; 

’T  is  she,  the  once  wretched,  but  now  happy  Miriam 
Who  leans  on  the  arm  of  her  husband  and  friend. 
There ’s  a  tear  on  her  cheek  from  the  fountain  of  pleasure, 
A  smile  on  her  lip  as  she  looks  on  her  treasure ; 

While  gratitude  springs  in  her  heart,  without  measure, 
For  blessings  that  blot  out  the  memory  of  pain. 

They  came  to  the  altar  where  penitents  gather, 

And  breathe  their  thanksgiving  to  God’s  holy  name, 
That  he,  the  loved  husband,  and  now  honored  father, 

Is  plucked  like  a  brand  from  the  furnace  of  shame. 


244 


TEMPERANCE. 


Oh !  who  that  has  looked  on  a  scene  so  endearing, 
For  lucre  would  ruin  a  prospect  so  cheering, 

And  blight  the  fond  hopes  of  the  sweet  rose  of  Erin, 
And  lure  a  freed  soul  to  his  fetters  again  ? 

Dec.  14,  1842. 


The  sword  its  many  thousand  slays, 

And  marble  monuments  arise 
Engraven  with  the  victims’  praise, 

And  even  lauding  to  the  skies. 

But  those  who  by  intemperance  fall, 
Consigned  to  earth,  neglected  rot  — 

For  none  are  anxious  to  recall 
The  memory  of  a  buried  sot. 

Though  genius  marked  him  for  her  own, 
And  generous  deeds  were  his  at  times, 
Genius  for  folly  can’t  atone, 

Nor  wash  away  the  drunkard’s  crimes. 

If  father,  brother,  son,  or  friend, 

Intemperance  leaves  so  deep  a  stain, 
When  death  has  sealed  the  drunkard’s  end, 
None  wish  to  hear  his  name  again. 


ELVIRA. 


245 


To  hearts  the  drunkard  caused  to  ache, 
Remembrance  ever  brings  a  pang  — 

Their  former  sufFrings  to  awake, 

More  dreaded  than  the  serpent’s  fang ! 

Thus,  whether  with  the  quick  or  dead, 
The  drunkard  is  the  cause  of  woe  : 

Though  tears  in  vain  for  him  were  shed, 
They  may  not,  will  not  cease  to  flow. 

For  who  can  think  without  a  tear 
Of  one  he  loved,  who  madly  gave 

All  that  a  man  should  value  here, 

To  fill  a  loathesome  drunkard’s  grave  ? 


vira. 


(Tune  —  Beattie’s  Hermit.) 


T  was  that  time  of  night  when  the  wolf  quits  his  den, 
And  beings  as  soulless  are  fleecing  their  prey  ; 

When  silence  bears  rule  in  the  dwellings  of  men, 

And  prowls  the  dark  ruffian,  to  plunder  or  slay. 

’T  was  that  heart-sickening  time  when  no  mortal  would 
choose 

Abroad  to  encounter  the  pestilent  blight ; 

And  few  would  the  humble  man’s  shelter  refuse, 

If  offered  protection  on  that  dismal  night. 


246 


TEMPERANCE. 


When  traveling,  I  saw  a  poor  female,  alone, 

In  sadness  pursuing  her  danger-girt  way. 

Poor  wanderer  !  she  knew  me  ;  I  heard  her  deep  moan  : 
’T  was  the  drunkard’s  poor  wife  ;  ’twas  the  rumseller’s 
prey. 

“  Oh  !  whither  so  late  are  you  wending,”  I  cried, 
“Surrounded  by  dangers,  alone,  and  in  tears?” 

“  I  ’m  seeking  my  husband,”  she  sobbing  replied  ; 

“  My  children  are  starving  —  my  own  little  dears  ! 

“  For  my  husband  has  been  to  the  tavern  since  morn, 
Carousing,  and  spending  our  earnings  for  rum. 

He  promised  —  but  ah  !  he  has  often  forsworn  — 

That  home  to  his  children  ere  night  he  would  come. 

“  I  heed  not  the  dangers  that  lurk  in  my  path  ; 

I  fear  not  for  sufferings  more  great  than  I  feel ; 

I  have  drank  to  the  dregs  the  full  cup  of  his  wrath  — 
For  who  can  the  drunkard’s  wife’s  sorrows  reveal  ?” 

Poor  girl !  In  the  brightness  of  life’s  happy  morn 
I  knew  her,  the  loved  and  admired  of  all. 

How  altered  —  of  all  her  sweet  blandishments  shorn! 
How  fair  were  her  prospects  —  how  hopeless  her  fall ! 

When  married,  her  husband,  though  thoughtless,  was 
kind. 

And  love,  for  a  time,  could  his  failings  conceal, 

Till  rum,  the  destroyer  of  body  and  mind, 

Begirt  him  with  fetters  far  stronger  than  steel. 


THROUGH  ALL  OUR  WILD  RAMBLES. 


247 


She  went  to  the  groggery ;  her  husband  was  there, 
Too  drunk  to  be  roused  from  his  sleep  on  the  floor. 
The  rumseller  laughed  at  her  cry  of  despair, 

And  thrust  the  poor  sufferer  away  from  his  door. 

Oh,  alas !  poor  Elvira,  thy  sorrows  were  great ; 

No  pen  can  your  heart-rending  anguish  portray  : 
That  heart  was  too  soft  to  endure  its  hard  fate  — 

The  grave  has  closed  over  the  rumseller’s  prey. 

Oh  !  when  shall  that  curse  be  expelled  from  our  land  ? 

Arise !  O  my  country,  and  wipe  out  the  stain, 

That  mothers  and  children  no  longer  may  stand 
Beseeching  the  rumseller’s  mercy  in  vain ! 

The  earth  with  the  blood  of  the  victims  is  red  ; 

The  pestilence  springs  from  their  viperous  lair; 

The  ocean  is  paved  with  the  bones  of  their  dead, 
While  thousands  are  falling  each  day  in  the  snare. 


our  wild 


a 


(Tune  —  Sweet  Home.) 


Through  all  our  wild  rambles  in  search  after  bliss, 
Experience  informs  us  there ’s  no  place  like  this  :  * 


*  Alluding  to  a  temperance  meeting,  the  author  being  present. 


248 


TEMPERANCE. 


A  charm  for  the  soul  seems  to  hallow  the  place, 

And  open  our  hearts  to  the  whole  human  race. 

This  ?  yes,  this  ;  ’t  is  this  —  there ’s  no  place  like  this  ; 
There ’s  no  place  like  this  ! 

A  brother  who  breaks  from  his  festering  chain, 

And  seeks  for  that  freedom  he  scarce  hopes  to  gain, 

Kind  friends  and  protection  will  find  in  this  hall, 

And  freedom  of  speech  that’s  awarded  to  all. 

This  ?  yes,  this  ;  ’t  is  this  —  there ’s  no  place  like  this  ; 
There’s  no  place  like  this! 

The  slave  of  Intemperance,  though  chained  to  her  car 
As  victors  of  old  dragged  their  trophies  of  war, 

If  he  would  be  free  let  him  whisper  our  call ; 

We’ll  tender  the  pledge,  and  his  fetters  will  fall. 

This  ?  yes,  this  ;  ’t  is  this  —  there ’s  no  charm  like  this  ; 
There ’s  no  charm  like  this  ! 

To  all  we  the  hand  of  affection  extend, 

And  hail  every  man  as  a  brother  and  friend  ; 

The  seal  of  our  God  on  his  forehead  we  trace, 

And  ask  not  his  title,  his  sect,  or  his  race. 

This?  yes,  this;  ’t  is  this;  there’s  no  seal  like  this; 
There’s  no  seal  like  this! 

Men,  women,  and  children,  together  we  join 
To  drive  out  the  curse  of  rum,  brandy,  and  wine, 
Experience  assures  us  that  Temperance  is  bliss  ; 

Then  come  to  her  altar,  there ’s  no  place  like  this. 

This?  yes,  this;  ’t  is  this;  there’s  no  place  like  this; 
There’s  no  place  like  this  ! 


THE  POOR  LONE  ORPHAN  BOY. 


249 


(Tune  —  The  Bereaved  Slave-Mother.) 

Away  from  the  home  to  his  infancy  known, 

The  poor  child  of  the  drunkard  to  fortune  is  thrown  ; 
Alone  and  forsaken,  by  grief  overtaken, 

The  poor,  lone  orphan  boy. 

No  mother  consoles  him  in  sorrow  or  pain, 

And  the  voice  of  his  father  he  hears  not  again, 

Alone  in  the  city  —  an  object  of  pity, 

The  poor,  lone  orphan  boy. 

He  pines  for  the  home  where  he  sported  at  will, 

And  his  mother,  though  base,  was  his  own  mother  still. 
That  name  to  his  brain  clings;  ’t is  bound  to  the  heart¬ 
strings 

Of  the  lone  orphan  boy. 

The  grave  has  closed  over  his  hope  and  his  joy, 

And  he  wanders  the  fatherless,  motherless  boy. 
Surrounded  by  danger,  he  sees  but  the  stranger, 

The  poor,  lone  orphan  boy. 

Guilt  opens  her  portals  ;  he  enters  her  door  : 

Who  now  will  defend  him  or  seek  to  restore? 

The  law  will  consign  him  —  the  bolts  will  confine  him, 
The  poor,  lone  orphan  boy. 


250 


TEMPERANCE. 


What  hope  now  remains  to  redeem  his  lost  name? 

He ’s  consigned  to  the  lodge  of  corruption  and  shame. 
Death  soon  ends  his  career,  and  no  eye  sheds  a  tear 
For  the  lone  orphan  boy. 

Oh !  you  who  have  children,  suppose  it  your  case, 

And  in  fancy  behold  your  own  child  in  his  place ! 
Intemperance  pursuing  may  bring  to  like  ruin 
Your  poor,  lone  orphan  boy. 


A  drunkard  lay  upon  the  ground, 

A  noble  wreck  abandoned  there  ; 

And  not  a  friendly  hand  was  found 
To  screen  him  in  his  deep  despair. 

A  maiden  passed  of  peerless  grace, 

And,  while  her  bosom  heaved  a  sigh, 

She  with  her  kerchief  veiled  his  face, 
Sealed  with  a  pearl-drop  from  her  eye. 

Another  eye  the  act  had  seen, 

And  Wirt,  to  sense  restored,  was  told  ; 

Her  name  was  on  the  kerchief  screen, — 
A  name  that  should  be  blazed  in  gold. 


THE  MOURNING  WIFE. 


251 


That  name  had  sunk  into  his  heart, 
Expelling  all  that  had  enslaved  : 

He  vowed  to  act  the  manly  part, 

Reformed  —  and  noble  Wirt  was  saved! 

Oh  !  what  a  glorious  prize  was  here, 

To  woo  and  win  that  peerless  maid ! 
Two  hearts,  cemented  with  a  tear, 

Were  on  Love’s  holy  altar  laid. 


(Tune —  From  a  Ruin  thou  art  Singing.) 

On  the  hearthstone  she  sits  weeping, 
Poor,  hapless,  mourning  wife  : 

Over  her  pale  cheeks  are  creeping 
Tears  that  drain  the  fount  of  life. 

Why  sits  she  lonely  in  her  tears, 

With  dread  forebodings  rife? 

Why  looks  she  struggling  with  her  fears, 
Poor  hapless,  mourning  wife  — 

Poor  hapless,  mourning  wife  ! 

Her  fair  hopes  have  all  departed 
Since  he  who  was  her  pride 

Has  made  her  broken-hearted  — 

She  is  now  the  drunkard’s  bride. 

To  her  the  future,  drear  and  dim, 

Admits  no  hope  in  life  ; 


252 


TEMPERANCE. 


Her  joys  were  centred  all  in  him, 
Poor  hapless,  mourning  wife  — 
Poor  hapless,  mourning  wife  ! 

Stay,  O  man,  to  ruin  winging ; 

Hear  Mercy’s  voice  in  time  : 
Another ’s  to  thee  clinging  ; 

Must  she  perish  by  thy  crime  ? 
Repent,  the  wretched  thing  thou  art, 
For  her  once  dear  as  life  ; 

Bring  back  her  husband  to  her  heart, 
Poor  hapless,  mourning  wife  — 
Poor  hapless,  mourning  wife  ! 


Written  for  a  Washingtonian  Tea  Party,  in  Weymouth. 


(Tune  —  The  Guardian  Genius  of  the  Swiss.) 

For  temperance  here  again  we  meet, 
And  wake  the  cheerful  strain  ; 

Our  pledge  of  constancy  repeat, 

And  seal  it  o’er  again. 

We  love  the  cause;  it  cheers  the  soul, 
And  bids  the  spirit  soar 
Above  the  passions’  wild  control, 

To  be  a  slave  no  more. 

Where’er  the  temperance  flag  is  borne 
A  band  of  brothers  rise, 


SURE,  WON'T  YOU  HEAR? 


253 


And  smiling  Plenty  lifts  her  horn, 

And  Vice,  uprooted,  flies. 

Industry,  Health,  and  Joy,  and  Peace 
On  Temperance  still  attend  ; 

She  bids  the  selfish  passions  cease  — 
Makes  man  to  man  a  friend. 

She  spreads  her  mantle  o’er  the  poor, 
And  warms  the  widow’s  hearth  ; 

Her  silver  key  unlocks  the  door, 

And  lets  the  prisoner  forth. 

Around  the  world  she  sweeps  her  wings, 
Dispensing,  as  she  flies, 

The  thousand  blessings  that  she  brings 
As  presents  from  the  skies. 

Beneath  her  care  the  cottage  smiles, 

And  quiet  reigns  around  ; 

Successful  Art  her  treasure  piles, 

And  safety  still  is  found. 

For  all  these  blessings  she  bestows 
May  grateful  thanks  ascend 

To  Him  from  whom  all  goodness  flows, 
Our  Father,  and  our  Friend. 


(Tune — Something  like  a  Parody  on  “Tid  re  I;  or,  Paddy’s  Wedding.”) 

Sure,  won’t  you  hear  what  jovial  cheer 
We  had  in  Norfolk  County,  O, 


254 


TEMPERANCE. 


And  how,  so  gay,  we  spent  the  day, 

From  morning  to  the  evening,  O  ? 

First,  heart  in  hand,  came  Father  Spear,  * 

Good  tidings  always  bringing,  O; 

While  with  the  merry  urchins’  cheer 
The  swarming  grove  was  ringing,  O. 

At  the  very  moment  that  Father  Spear  heard  there  was 
to  be  a  picnic  in  the  grove,  he  went  up  to  brother  R.  A. 
Hunt’s,  and  told  him  all  about  it;  who  jumped  up  in  a 
giffy,  put  on  his  coat,  and  started  off  for  the  South  Wey¬ 
mouth  band,  which  came  in  fine  style,  playing  a  sweet  little 
sort  of  a 

Li  fal  la,  and  li  fal  li,  and  li  fal  la, 

So  lively,  O. 

Now,  there  was  John,  and  Simeon, 

Elias,  Sam,  and  Peter,  O, 

And  Martin  K.,  and  F.  M.  A., 

Who  sings  about  the  creature,  O. 

And  then  the  girls,  the  lovely  dears, 

Led  on  while  bells  were  dinging,  O, 

While  with  the  merry  urchins’  cheers 
The  swarming  grove  was  ringing,  O. 

Brother  Jewett,  it  must  have  done  your  heart  good  to 
see  the  little  boys  and  girls,  stepping  gaily  along  in  rows 
of  half  a  dozen,  one  after  another,  keeping  time  with  the 
music  that  was  marching  on  before,  playing  up  a  sweet 
little  sort  of  a 

Li  fal  la,  and  li  fal  li,  and  li  fal  la, 

So  lively,  O. 


Rev.  J.  M.  Spear,  the  leader  of  the  Cold  Water  Army. 


SURE,  WON’T  YOU  HEAR ? 


255 


When  one  was  asked  would  temperance  last, 

He  pointed  into  his  pockets,  O  ; 

With  a  knowing  wink  he  tapped  the  chink, 

And  quoted  David  Crockett,  O: 

“We  know  we  ’re  right,”  and  now,  my  dears, 
“We’ll  go  ahead,”  all  singing,  O, 

While  with  the  merry  urchins’  cheers 
The  swarming  grove  is  ringing,  O. 

When  the  company  were  all  assembled  Father  Spear 
made  a  speech,  setting  forth  the  beauties  of  Temperance, 
and  recommending  “moral  suasion”  as  the  best  method  to 
induce  people  to  sign  the  pledge,  and  unite  together  in 
love  and  harmony.  No  sooner  had  he  mentioned  the 
word  love,  than  the  lads  and  lasses  began  to  cast  “  sheeps’- 
eyes”  at  each  other,  and  every  one  showed  by  their  looks 
that  they  didn’t  need  either  moral  or  legal  suasion  to  in¬ 
duce  them  to  love  each  other  with  all  their  hearts ;  while 
the  musicians,  who  were  seated  in  a  charming  bower, 
struck  up  a  sweet  little  sort  of  a 

Li  fal  la,  and  li  fal  li,  and  li  fal  la, 

So  lively,  O. 

“  When  a  sober  set,  for  temperance  met, 

Drank  deep,"  says  the  reporter,  O, 

“While  cakes  and  fruit,  with  pies  to  boot, 

Were  drowned  in  sparkling  water,  O. 

Then  ’round,  to  be  sure,  didn’t  go  the  jeers 
At  the  rummy’s  cost  —  so  stinging,  O  ! 

While  with  the  merry  urchins’  cheers 
The  swarming  grove  was  ringing,  O.” 


256 


TEMPERANCE. 


For  the  Committee,  d’ye  see,  were  resolved  to  do  the 
thing  in  a  genteel  way.  So  they  invited  all  comers  to  par¬ 
take  freely  of  the  good  things  set  before  them ;  and  the 
way  they  took  hold  of  the  cakes,  pies,  plums,  apples,  pears, 
peaches,  etc.,  was  a  caution  to  all  people  how  they 
place  good  food  and  drink  before  temperance  folks  ;  for 
their  appetites,  always  good,  held  out  till  the  musicians, 
who  had  just  done  smacking  their  lips,  began  playing  up  a 
sweet  little  sort  of  a 

Li  fal  la,  and  li  fal  li,  and  li  fal  la, 

So  lively,  O. 

And  then,  at  last  —  oh,  unsurpassed  !  — 

The  merry  joys  of  dancing,  O  : 

An  upper-crust  ball  was  nothing  at  all 

Compared  with  the  style  of  their  prancing,  O, 

And  then  to  see  good  Father  Spear 

So  pleased,  while  they  were  winging,  O ! 

While  with  the  merry  urchins’  cheers 
The  swarming  grove  was  ringing,  O. 

Before  they  had  finished  their  dancing,  old  go-to-bed 
Sol  had  retired  behind  the  hills,  and  the  full  moon  looked 
down  with  her  beautiful  face  on  the  happy  group  below, 
who,  by  their  looks,  speech,  and  actions  pronounced  the 
whole  affair  to  have  been  one  of  the  best  that  was  ever 
enacted  for  the  happiness  of  the  young,  the  confirma¬ 
tion  of  the  old,  and  the  promotion  and  encouragement  of 
the  good  old  cause  of  total  abstinence  from  all  that  can 
intoxicate  the  brain,  enfeeble  the  body,  or  corrupt  the 
mind ;  while  the  mingling  together  of  happy  hearts,  the 
brotherly  and  sisterly  exchange  of  kind  sentiments,  to- 


THE  MOTHER'S  CURSE. 


257 


gether  with  the  cheering  exercise,  made  every  one  feel 
that  they  were  all  the  better  for  the  picnic,  and  at  every 
gap  in  the  ceremonies  the  joyful  music  struck  up  a  sweet 
little  sort  of  a 


Li  fal  la,  and  li  fal  li,  and  li  fal  la, 

So  lively,  O. 

While  ending,  now  prepared  to  go, 

Three  cheers  for  sparkling  water,  O, 

While  firm  they  pledge  the  temperance  wedge 
To  drive,  and  show  no  quarter,  O. 

And  then,  enough  to  crack  your  ears, 

All  hands  set  up  a  singing,  O, 

While  with  the  merry  urchins’  cheers 
The  swarming  grove  was  ringing,  O. 


So,  when  they  had  all  got  through  with  their  frolic,  and 
resolved  to  have  another  next  year,  they  started  off  in  high 
glee,  laughing  and  singing  as  they  went  along,  and  making 
the  hills  and  valleys  re-echo  with  their  glad  voices,  min¬ 
gled  with  the  soul-stirring  music  of  the  retiring  band,  that 
every  now  and  then  struck  up  a  sweet  little  sort  of  a 


Li  fal  la,  and  li  fal  li,  and  li  fal  la. 
So  lively,  O. 


(ij) \)G  FRiotl^er’s 


urse. 


Oh,  the  drunkard’s  horrid  life  ! 
If  he  has  a  brother, 


Father,  sister,  child,  or  wife, 
If  he  has  a  mother, 


258 


TEMPERANCE. 


What  must  their  affliction  be, 

What  their  pain  and  grief,  to  see 
One  who  should  their  comfort  be, 

Every  sign  of  reason  gone, 

On  the  highway  tumbling  down  — 
Lying  in  the  gutter  ; 

Trying,  incoherently, 

Filthy  speech  to  utter ! 

With  delirium  tremens  crazed, 
Blood-red  eyes,  with  frenzy  glazed, 
Spotted  red  with  whiskey-stains, 
Misanthropic,  addled  brains  — 
Frighted  with  the  horrid  glare 
Of  demons’  eyes,  that  everywhere 
Haunt  him  with  their  mocking  stare  ! 

Waking  from  a  drunken  course, 

What  must  be  his  dread  remorse  !  — 
Conscience,  like  a  barbed  dart, 
Tearing  through  his  brain, 

Cutting  through  his  guilty  heart, 
Burning  every  vein  ! 

What  a  horrid  life  he  leads, 

Thinking  of  his  evil  deeds  ! 

Not  a  sign  of  comfort  there  ; 

All  is  darkness  and  despair. 

He,  of  all  mankind,  can  tell 
What  the  torturing  pangs  of  hell ; 
These  he  knows,  alas  !  too  well. 


THE  MOTHER'S  CURSE. 


259 


Oh  !  the  drunkard’s  dreadful  end, 
Lying  all  forlorn ! 

Scarce  a  mourner  or  a  friend 
’Midst  the  gazing  throng: 

And  if  o’er  him  tears  be  shed, 

’  T  is  not  that  he  now  lies  dead, 

But  that  he  had  been  born, 

Or  that  he  lived  so  long  ! 

Hark  !  upon  the  moaning  gale, 

Lo,  I  hear  the  mother’s  wail — 
Wailing  o’er  her  ruined  son, 

Now  his  dreadful  course  is  run  — 
Fearing  for  his  future  state, 
Mourning  o’er  her  cruel  fate. 

Hark  !  upon  my  startled  ear, 

Sounds  of  agony  and  fear, 

Like  a  trumpet,  shrill  and  clear  ! 
Grief  and  horror  in  her  eyes. 

“  Curse  the  rumseller  !  ”  she  cries, 

“  He  who  God  and  man  defies !  ” 

Oh !  that  mother’s  dreadful  curse  ! 
Can  there  be  a  torture  worse 
Than  that  rumseller  must  feel, 
Though  his  heart  were  hard  as  steel  ? 

Wheresoe’er  the  wretch  may  be, 

On  the  land  or  on  the  sea, 

He  must  hear  that  awful  sound 
Ever  echoing  around  : 


260 


TEMPERANCE. 


“  May  the  evil  he  has  wrought 
All  on  his  own  head  be  brought ! 
May  he  die  a  wretched  sot, 

On  a  dunghill  lie  and  rot ! 

May  no  tears  for  him  be  shed  ; 

May  no  prayers  for  him  be  said  ; 
Curse  him  living,  curse  him  dead  !  ” 

Think  not  that  poor  mother’s  wail, 
Her  sad  cry  of  pain, 

Dies  unheeded  on  the  gale  ; 

There’s  an  ever  list’ning  ear 
That  poor  suff’rer’s  cry  will  hear  — 
Hear,  and  not  in  vain. 

Her  dread  curse  may  cling  to  thee 
Like  a  loathsome  leprosy  — 

Like  the  mark  on  Cain  ! 

June  7, 1873. 


She  knelt  beside  the  lonely  grave, — 

Affection  well  had  marked  the  spot, — 

And  her’s  the  only  prayer  to  save 
His  soul  who  died  a  loathsome  sot. 

Why  bends  she  there,  with  weeping  eyes, 
O’er  that  despised,  polluted  one? 

Speak  soft;  her  prayer  to  Heaven  will  rise, — 
A  mother  prays  to  save  her  son. 


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